Monday, March 31, 2014

The End...

3.31  Journey’s End

Rest now sweet muse
whose weary arms
have carried me
have dragged me
have shoved me
all of these days
some more frequent
some less eloquent
to this point
this precipice
of windswept rock
where sheep do not 
dare to graze

I turn to look toward
the beginning
my back to the abyss
my face to 
that bustling month
which stretched on for 
each endeavor a small flag
stuck wherever it might hold
rock outcropping
clump of heather
barren valley so unwelcoming
a hammer couldn’t have 
planted the flag
and the line of fluttering soldiers
so white
so fragile
could lead me back there
to that mewling pup
whose photo I still carry

instead I turn again
to the wind and the
fury of the sea
before me
and shout back
until I feel my words
gathering like wings
and the lift is so tremendous
so terrifying
so brutal
so beautiful.


This marks the end of my year of poetry.  


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