I wait for myself in my wandering;
there are days that I wake that
I feel like I have left myself
out in a roaring sea.
Who was it that thought me
some great sailor, or
a siren who sings to soften
shaky tides and heavy storms?
Who placed me in this tide, this
rise and fall, and rise again,
torn away from rock and boulder
stretched out across inky waters
that house beasts and tales
of great men lost
to their dreams of new beginnings?
Who wrote this verse, the anthology
that chronicles voyages of wading,
and then waiting
to recognize the woman
who has returned home
after so long away?
There are days that I wake that
I feel like I have come home to myself
after lifetimes of crossing salted water;
what relief to see
myself after so much time.
What relief to see
I have not left, I was not gone
I did not lose myself, I was not
missing, I was not vacant.
I was only just
as the swallows are,
in flight without fleeing
in union with air and expanse
in song as I dance
ahead of hurricane, below
glass skies, beside
sailors as they make their way
back to their place of belonging.