Labyrinth

Labyrinth

Many days have I journeyed through the labyrinth,
Placing always
One foot before the other
Methodically, determinedly,
Around the winding paths of forests cool and deep--
Where light is dim no shadows fall--
Across the sere sand of desert years where
Parched and fevered,
Fending off the glaring sun by day
And clinging like a moth to my dreams by night
I muttered my words
Into the deaf ears of languid air
Expecting reverberations from the canyons of the universe,
Yet only echoes of my whispered lament stirred
And clung to me like a chronic ailment.

Once, I rambled through a greening glade,
Moss-fresh air filling my lungs with pneumonic sharpness,
A painful gasping joy that passed like lust
In a hummingbird's flutter,
And I marched fettered for a season after
To a dream that had died in my arms.
My footsteps wore a path around the graveside into a dusty ritual.
Yet even grief grows old and passes with the years into its
Own quiet grave, a hazy memory,
And I moved on without
Quite knowing how or when,
The machinations of the mind a wily creature.

I sought the world again flamboyantly,
Breaking the horns of the minotaur,
And those were the days of the hunter,
Of running wild through the world,
Powerful, austere,
Leaping the labyrinthine walls,
Blood-intent, scent of desire driven,
Demented and flushed with the thrill of the chase.
Once more the journey ended
Abruptly, succinctly,
A curtain falling on another act
And I found myself standing alone in the mezzanine
Applauding an empty stage with the light slyly fading.
Outside, blinking in the daylight,
Surprise mingling with suspicion to find
The afternoon not night and warm and golden still,
I stood for once paused in the leaf-glorious glow of summer,
Inhaling with wonder that had waned long ago in the turnings of the road
The path behind me
And a shadow of self like Dorothy Oz,
Red shoes kicking up clumps of earth
As I ran, walked, danced, plodded,
Clod of a dreamer,
Scarecrow of hope,
Ghost of myself,
And all along the path was mine--
I'd arrived before leaving,
And the journey
Is home.

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Russ's Creek

Tempus Fugit

So much happening just now. Bill and I have lost aged loved ones to time and eternity. We ponder our own mortality as we move into their places as the older generation, wondering how time could slip by so swiftly and wanting to make good use of every moment. This generation that is/has been passing, born into a Depression, took on the duties necessitated by a world war, both at home and far away, unhesitatingly, unflinchingly, witnessing deprivations and devastations we can only imagine. And, somehow, they came through it all with dignity and perspective. I have never met finer men and women than they. Bill and I were too young for Viet Nam and are too old now for the Middle East conflict. As such we've led spoiled, easy lives. Perhaps we may yet redeem ourselves through other gifts; only time will tell.