It’s taken years, most of a lifetime,
To hear voice within that’s distinctly mine.
Already I am old, my heart stretched thin
From hearing other’s voices—
Those who taught me
Right from wrong, how to walk,
Measure carefully each word upon the page.
Now, I sit in dark of night,
No longer wearing other people’s faces,
Sorting many times and places,
Sitting here alone— needing time to be alone,
No longer shaken or confused, but clear—
And praying that by end of poem,
My clarity will still be here.
Time itself is never old—- Time is forever young,
And in this Time I do not move or
Madly run away in fear.
Each morning, I sift within the mind,
Am taught by dreams that visited in night.
Finally, I’ve learned to tell the Voices
To give me space to breathe—
An inch of space and silence
Makes all the difference when house is
Solely mine and yet remains so quiet.
I walk outside, watch early moon,
Know that in regions I cannot see,
Sun still moves, remains forever Source.
I know that if, when morning comes,
As shadow falls upon the page
My hand still holds the pen.
And where in all of this is Love?
Love is not like leaves that grow and fall
From branches on the trunk.
Love is tenacious root that runs deep within,
All the way down to bedrock.
Love is sometimes fertile, never detached,
Spending itself, flowing unless blocked—
Stopping love within the heart
Always comes with hidden, hurtful cost.
All I know is that I do not know enough to know.
Here, where darkest need is the only guide,
I do not move, but pause, accept this present hour
Is also where Time is young.
There will yet be other days.
Darkness of night is not complete and
None can halt rising of the Sun.
With morning’s light, we shall part one last time—
Forever leaving as we come, arriving as we go,
Learning that through every curving path
We begin to glimpse the whole.
