Every storm has a quiet cradle:
A cell in which I can sit with myself and my shadow;
Rain and wind are doubtless a-coming
But before the tempest noise stirs
We get to read between such lines as we can see.
I look through my own eyes – in these moments –
And into my own eyes, seeing beyond, behind.
We’ve started some big fires to get here,
Jumped into and over others, it’s true
And, after this latest hurricane has
Passed and done some damage
We’ll enjoy a summer garden again.
Yet I cannot escape the feeling that I’ve
Let go of some of the ropes and chains
That have anchored me
To the valuable past.
And it frightens me.