There is an aching deep within my heartthat cannot be explained.
It wakes me in the middle of the night
and write these lines — kind of fishing in a great sea I cannot find by day.
This escapade is not the search for something new.
It is not the need to find
more, it is the being moved,
my being pulled by an unseen moon,
how small birds, when days get cold,
make their way
across dark skies to the place where they were born,
how a feather falls to earth
and a child, finding it, looks up,
why dogs pace back and forth before a door
as their master turns for home.
Ah, this restlessness, this thirst, this ache,
this silent undertow inside
that takes me back to the hidden spring
where lions come to drink,
and snakes,
why birds sing when they are all alone
and the long ride home on an empty train
often feels like an arrival.