We are the secret radical hopers
gathering dreams in our nets and
letting them go
in the same liminal moment.
Our ship has rudder and sails
but they are useless when the
sea is stacked
so tall against us. Still, we must move on.
Love comes in with the tide
but we, the explorers, cannot
predict when
or from where it flows, not by
moon-clock,
not by the hidden language of
our bodies or stars,
but by its own curious
compulsions.
Sometimes we are lifted light as
foam on
the crest of life. Sometimes we are night’s own anchor.
Sometimes we are lost at sea, praying
like a jellyfish on the strand,
crying out for saltwater solace
in the arms of the deep.
J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 2020
🙂
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