Worlds Away

what the nomad brought home

She Is

Las voces vivas del recuerdo se disfrazan de intuición.”  Bacilos — “Caraluna”

She is
A breath,
A whisper, if you will….
The scent of summer,
That intangible cue
That, unknowing, drifts parallel to a capricious wanderer,
Alights on a singular breeze,
Reveals its presence to the senses
And just as quickly vanishes.
Yet something about it has lightened your step,
Made you aware of a new season,
And announced itself in ways so subtle and accidental —
And undeniable —
That it almost seems like magic.

She is
A melody
So ancient
That your desires always carried her song
And the pulsing in your veins, her rhythm,
And you are surprised to find yourself aching for more of this familiar aria
Which your ears have never perceived.
But you tell no one — because there is nothing to tell.

She is that shadow
That indisputable stray reflection
That you catch in a careless glance
And never actually saw,
Yet you seek–
So stupid, foolish, crazy! —
Hoping to touch its ethereal fibre
By locking it in the casual gaze of coincidence.

She is the muse
That follows the inspiration,
Not a crazy, fevered obsession,
But a perfectly logical burning
That makes you doubt reason itself.

She is the rain
That lands only one unassuming drop at a time,
Yet of course, almost immediately, you find yourself drenched
In confused exhilaration,
And dripping, shining
With the most absurd of drunken certainty.

She is
That subconscious river flowing through your thoughts,
Which slowly, imperceptibly, but without fail,
Carves the most immutable of mountains into new landscapes;
Transforms the hardest of rocks into a powder fine enough to float on the wind,
And, with a fire to burn her, will seem to vanish from before your eyes,
While you breathe her in without knowing that you’re doing it
Because it is instinctive.

She is the dream you carelessly paint every night,
Half sleeping and barely alive,
In clumsy, frantic strokes
Tinged by the pathetic fury of free will
And the merciful finesse of fate,
And you know she’s real —
Because you never actually envisioned her.

She is
The exotic, so familiar!
A timeless truth
And a fleeting brush with myth.

She —
Elusive and stationary,
Fantastic and mundane,
Invisible and obvious,
Sublime….

She is
Your echo
Carrying words you haven’t uttered.
Your breath
Reaching lands you haven’t explored.
Your memories
Of adventures you haven’t had.
Your scars
From battles you haven’t waged.
Your pulse
In a body you haven’t touched.
And your footsteps
On a path you haven’t tread.
She is yesterday
And never before.
She is now —
But only in delusions.
She is the essence, the aura, of always.

December 19, 2007 Posted by | muse, Poetry, Uncategorized, Woman, Writing | , , | Leave a comment