It is not that I haven’t known sadness,
blundered in the clutch of its graying shawl,
scraped my every certainty
on its ragged, hollowing night.
I, too, have been invited,
marked for this territory — a wilderness
that calls us to be pioneers
no matter how many times
its mapless gong has wailed
through our blood.
Grief is a sharp turn
that never rights, a rutted
groove in the muscle that makes
and remakes us, pushes us
forward into what we cannot
see, name … a saltless memory,
a startled love, joy sharpening
its teeth, craving the wide,
feathered sky.
The Traveling Light 
Exquisite as always, dear friend – thanks for sharing your beautiful poetic heart!
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Bless you, my glorious friend.
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Naila, I love your use of metaphor.
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Thank you, Marge. Sometimes what spills out surprises me.
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beautiful and profound
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Thank you so very much, Kodiak (such a beautiful name!). I know you too have walked this wilderness. Wishing you every enfolding grace as you continue to heal and move forward.
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two things: love it!!!! and what is marge doing up at 1:31am?!!!
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Yes, what indeed? Big hug, my beautiful friend. Hope Seattle is still a song in your heart.
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