I have
walked through many lives,
some of
them my own,
and I am
not who I was,
though some
principle of being
abides,
from which I struggle
not to
stray.
When I look
behind,
as I am
compelled to look
before I
can gather strength
to proceed
on my journey,
I see the
milestones dwindling
toward the
horizon
and the
slow fires trailing
from the
abandoned camp-sites,
over which
scavenger angels
wheel on
heavy wings.
Oh, I have
made myself a tribe
out of my true
affections,
and my
tribe is scattered!
How shall
the heart be reconciled
to its
feast of losses?
In a rising
wind
the manic
dust of my friends,
those who
fell along the way,
bitterly
stings my face.
Yet I turn,
I turn,
exulting
somewhat,
with my
will intact to go
wherever I
need to go,
and every
stone on the road
precious to
me.
In my
darkest night,
when the
moon was covered
and I
roamed through wreckage,
a
nimbus-clouded voice
directed
me:
"Live
in the layers,
not on the
litter."
Though I
lack the art
to decipher
it,
no doubt
the next chapter
in my book
of transformations
is already
written.
I am not
done with my changes.
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