I can hear it.
The drumming and hammering
Upon a rotted-out branch.
Perhaps there is a juicy grub?
Or maybe the need to reach out to its own kind?
I’m here
I’m alive
Where are you?
My guess would be a downy woodpecker
I see them frequently
When they brace themselves against the odds
And grab a seed at the feeder, then flee
But today I only hear
Not see
Lost as it should be
Amidst the almond shaped leaves
And the avenues of grey-brown bark.
But the bird has served a silent purpose
Unwittingly
And innocently
It draws me away
From my cauldron of self
Which occasionally needs a good stir
I am looking up now
Not down
I am reaching out now and opened
Not inward and closed
Stretching and unlocking
Receptive to worlds awaiting.
The sailor sets off
Letting the tide run
As sailors always have
Pointing the bow into the horizon
Which then becomes his destination.
Ports of call being only minor
irritations
Distractions, complications
No gps dictating
No one’s fault if he sails off the
edge:
It’s his journey, spawned of dreams
And if he so chooses
(Or is so chosen)
His life
His death.
To disappear is his expression
No grave, no flowers.
Beholding then,
As night clinks dully against day
& wears on it,
While dead stars persistently shine
Black holes ever drawing
Smoothing the edges
Razors yielding
Grinding on and on
Stardust to stardust.
The sailor is indifferently cast in
his part
Bearing his fruits
As tears of terror and wonder
Shore to unknown shore
Scorched by searing cauldrons
Frozen in place by the distances he
has come
And his dark destinations
No charts can pretend to predict.
Only the whales can tell and lead
Its their magic.
Listen to their call:
There is only magic.
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