poem

(untitled)

At times it appeared to be working,

fingering a braille of the imagination—

a language of intuition

scarcely to be explained

was a navigation of intangibility:

like manning a helm on a moonless night

over an unforgiving sea;

while everyone turned away as if you were crazy,

as you struggled with waves of doubt too;

but stayed the course in case it was true

it was making a difference;

you carried it through—

had to choose risking the love of a muse

for saving a way of knowing;

steadfast, awaiting conclusive proof

you could dismiss the notion at last;

to rejoin the pursuit of all that’s natural,

away from storms over dark seas

into the smooth arms of joy

and light in her eyes.