Yesterday I left the housesit I have inhabited for unanticipated stretch of nearly three years. I left a different person from the one who arrived, both less and more myself than before, and both perfect. These moments of transition are always full of phenomena for a writer to witness and tease into poetry; but these moments also demand most available stamina and action, and the writer must be content to live the poetry, becoming a headlong participant in the river of experience, rather than stopping to capture or divert the delirious flow of conceit and insight into tidy pastures and plots of poetry.
Still, to promote full release and closure, to call myself awake and whole into what will come next, to address myself and my life anew, with or without a new address, I would nightly invite the highlights to flow onto a page with any energy and clarity I had left. which was little! And now, having closed the door on the house and this life chapter, I honor this graduation, by posting what little did articulate itself: two quiet expressions of the same theme.
12 Moya, I
Three Aprils, two Augusts.
Nine hundred sunsets,
One ever changing wind.
Countless faces of the sun
on three wild yellow rose bushes.
Twenty six hills surrounding,
like the horse tribe protects a foal.
A place to heal, stark yet teeming.
Giving always what one needs;
not always want one wants.
Here, God hides in a cracked bird bath:
Quiet, steady and broken.
Broken so that water does not stay. It moves, always—
Lifted into sky, or carried into earth.
Flows where it is drawn;
The bones of this house crack and pop,
like mine. Silent, but not quiet.
Quiet, but not silent.
This house holds thoughts, memory, from before I came.
What memory will it hold of me?
In me, all memories blur into one blessing,
which I carry onward,
only as one carries the sensation of a smooth river stone
that spotted one’s bare foot across a cold river:
Gratitude, wonder and a moveable feast of belonging.
12 Moya II
For over two years, it has been where I am,
long enough to stop asking the question “why?”
Now, as I cross the gawping expanse of tile
in what, when furnished, was the living room,
my shuffling footfalls echo,
and in the sound bouncing back to me, I hear
an amusement, ease and belonging that have snuck up on me somehow,
in this house that was never really mine.
There is no sentimentality in my leaving,
only the knowing that I and the house, both, have benefitted from the arrangement,
and a friendly contentment that it is done.
And I give thanks…