My blog has moved

You will be automatically redirected to the new address.

If that does not occur, please visit;.

Monday, September 1, 2008


Yesterday I felt the restlessness in my soul.
That rootless, anxious feeling when your feet never touch the ground
and your bones feel off, disjointed, floating about
Like they will get more work done without you.

I wanted to throw on my red cape like Vivan
And move with the wind
Hunched under a storm cloud
Voice masked by the rainfall.

To run with the breeze that flows in my bones like marrow.

Today I lost myself in the trees on the high bluffs.
Wading waist deep through the sword ferns
Moss applied like a salve.

The trees lean in
Muting my pounding foot-beats
Trunks gave way to open grasses
Where the crickets purr and whistle

Gulls replace the chickadees
My footsteps lost in the sand.
My toes know my knees, know my spine, know my shoulders,
All pumping in time to my heart.

I feel whole


mme. bookling said...

what a fabulous introspection - poetic, present, open to any conclusion.

"Like they will get more work done without you..."

oh this line. yes, yes, my kindred. yes.

(you know, melancholy looks very elegant on you when you embrace it.)

thewindhover said...

I know how it feels,
to have a restless spirit - that desire to move and be uprooted; to be at the whim of something unknown, untouchable. Never being still. But today I awoke, wrapped warm in my sheets, speckled sunshine on my toes and I wanted nothing more to be still, let my heart rest, and listen to tiny cry of birds in the garden.

Thank you for your words,
they are beautiful,

Mum said...

You and your thoughts are beautiful, my love.

It pleases me that you've learned to listen to your heart and, rather than fight it, float along with it and observe where it takes you.

Iscah Mara said...

no, she's my kindred. i can't watch Chocolat without pressing my face to the wind, eyes heavy with wonder, heaving breaths of an uncertain destiny.

it must be that the sad state of an uprooted soul, nay rootless, seems tolerable if romanticized to a predetermined whimsy of spirit. maybe it's just the red cape in a gray, french village.

or perhaps it's simply the yearning for one whiff of that chocolaterie that lures us so.