What I'm looking for
must not be right, or the timing of it off...
like a mysterious noise from under the hood.
I've craned my ear, but it is as alien as it ever was.
What I'm looking for comes to visit.
We sit on the porch in awkward summary of each other,
while random insects circle
looking for a place to land.
I'm circling too
but the chairs are occupied with our human shapes
leaving no room for the enormity of spirit.
What I'm looking for
moves towards me haltingly
a nervous hand expecting something unpleasant
from the very thing it aches for.
There is so often the hasty retreat
fueled by fear and young pain.
Pain that has an age is by far the hardest to survive.
If the pain is age 2, or 5
only the very brave can look at the full length of it
so the running is completely understandable
ending things like a chord resolved.
It's rather expected, and peaceful
though I wish it weren't an end.
What I'm looking for
seems to find me with a degree of regularity
but stays just long enough for my own growth to disrobe
and stand in that heady space
between complete vulnerability and abject purpose.
There, I allow myself to be the stepping stone
not the landing
watching with an almost parental pride
as what I want
crosses over to what I cannot have.
There are nomads.
There are drifters.
What I'm looking for
seems to have joined a band of wanderers
keeping step with other prodigals on the healing path.
Prodigals return
What we want gives birth to what we need
and I've heard tales, that what we look for
sometimes
looks back.
