If you are a skeptic be careful
when you stroll by the sea.
So much in this world
hints at so much more to be,
We are intricately bound
to this world of woven wonder
and its all-encompassing gain
bled thru the all-encompassing loss.
I am caught there,
snagged on the loom
of poetry, and poems of mourning,
poems of profound lament.
You see, I am skeptical of happiness and yet
I am also skeptical of sorrow, that mere
A to Z acrostic of grief and loss expressed,
because it has its built in default limit.
These our exiled lives in disarray,
spirits torn out of our homes
and singing songs of misery
much deeper than we can endure?
It ends with bleeding blossoming,
our longing for that shining home
that waits across the water
and that notion, bright as noontime.
and that foggy haunting certainty,
that aching homely homesickness
that sings a deeper song unceasing…
All that tells us home is there