The island is here and its cliffs are starting to reveal themselves again.
From deep within the fog banks
Their oft-shrouded but proud black shoulders
Are once more basking themselves in the warmth
of yet another restless dawn
that asks, “where have you been?”
and beseeches them with light to come out already.
As I behold this,
I can only shrug and chuckle,
gently laying aside my childish urge to say something smart.
I always knew they were still there underneath,
Didn’t I?
It is not from a distance that I regard these
towering and sacred sentinels of all that is true;
I but stand at their base,
Having only just now remembered that
I was this close to their indefinable
yet infinitely sturdy presence the whole time,
And that I’ve always been this close.
Howsoever I invite the clouded mystery
around that which is and has always been right in front of me,
this proud island of looming truth follows me.
It follows me when I mount my soapbox
To build a fortress in words out of all my impressive knowledges,
Only to peer down at me and remind me I know nothing.
It follows me when I strap on sandals of Purpose with a capital P
and traipse the hillsides searching for home,
then kindly reminds me that home has been here all along.
It follows me when I travel the dank and dusky depths
Of the underworld against my will,
And patiently waits to give me back my laughter,
When I am ready again to receive it.