I move through the rooms of my body,
where my past is preserved:
the little room of childhood,
shot through with golden sunshine,
the loft in the treetops of my teen years,
where music and dreams led me forth
into a brighter tomorrow,
the tight, windowless room of marriage,
that I fled upon waking,
the rambling, noisy rooms
where I raised my children,
full of laughter, and kites,
and lake ripples.
At mid-life, I discovered
the seat of my Knowing,
living in the centre of my being.
Her voice was insistent,
would no longer be denied.
She plucked me from
my circumscribed existence,
lifting me over the mountains to the sea,
where I lived in a driftwood shelter,
no roof, and no door.
From it, I gazed at the expansiveness
of sea and sky, limitless horizons: joy.
Jonathan Livingston Seagull flew
through my inner rooms. My heart felt
the thump of his wings
with every heartbeat.
I live in smaller rooms, now:
constrained by age and the body
that feels all of its years.
My eyes rarely leave the sky.
They caress the rounded tops
of the hills sheltering the harbour;
I catch my breath at their slopes,
bedecked by clouds.
My body is in love with the sea;
my heart, with remembering.
This vessel that has carried me faithfully,
this frame that has contained all of
my hopes and my dreams,
my laughter and tears,
all of the rooms of Memory.
Tinged with amber light,
the past shines brighter
than the present, now,
as I make this circular passage
back to where my journey began.
for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motiff at Poets United: Of the Body