My Birth Place Is Here

I remembered that I am a wanderer.

And what would a wanderer do with their growing presence? I grow too big, too visible to the naked eye –

I search for hinges, a way out or around. I desire a familiarity that I know deep down does not exist on this planet. This is the wrong planet.

But I am the right half-light. A sacred story being told from the beginning of time – across the deep – to the end.

Life is a narrative that utilizes time to understand – a shift in the material to make sense, make form.

My being is immaterial. It contours outward and into this abyss. The same one that you know – however, in this longing and falling and becoming – I am home. I am who I was always going to be.

What I sit in is love and its ruins. There is no crevice or vacuum that contains explanation by way of His reasons.

Love is reason enough.

All grow weary and protrude with a gangly stalk toward the sky, unknown.

In this space I find you. Or I find the scent which would pervade my valleys when I stared too long into your eyes.

I am not lonely when I die unto myself. This is what He asks of me – to honor the truth of life and our animal nature. When He asks me to let you go in peace – to stop moving and feeling and crying and reaching.

Here in this ruin, I am held in loving arms.

Close into the bosom, the deafening closeness – of all this expanse from which I came.

My birth place is here.

Somewhere inside of my skin, my lungs, is a fragile bird who is built for flight but cannot walk without an awkward hopping.

A fledgling in a storm.

This is breathing. This is seeing and knowing.

This hopping is a joyful praise for everything this world has yet to tell me about myself.

From, I Used To Write Free, 2022-24