My beloved Wickanninish
This heart has done much traveling
while staying in one place,
in search of home it cannot keep
but always finding grace
in building nests, and making do,
with whatever came to hand,
eyes always raised in question,
gazing far across the land.
Each time is the last move,
each one the move that takes me home,
but soon my questing spirit
finds its way into my poems.
And it is time to search again,
to give my spirit rest.
Each time will be the final move,
the one that is the best.
I have another move or two,
my next back to the sea,
when joy will pack itself along
and move back home with me:
within the sound of the sea's roar,
I will be home at last.
I'll settle in, reclaim the joy
I found there in the past.