Travelling

 

"The page is a road that glows
in the setting light."
Joy Sullivan

Even sitting still, we're travelling:

even in these small cozy rooms, the horizon

draws me ever forward. My dreams,

though I feel as settled as a woodchuck

in this place, are all of searching

for a new home. I avert my eyes

from the message in this dream:

this may be the last home I live in,

so will the address of the next

be other-worldly?

Perhaps each poem
is a small journey

into the unknown.

Where do these words come from,
as I tap the keys?

Always, dreaming,
there is the ocean,

and an old house perched

on a hill. Sometimes I return

to the same house, on the same promontory,

and recognize it with delight

as the place I have always

been yearning for.

Once, I dreamed I was moving in
with my mother, who had been dead
for a year. Sometimes, I am reunited
with a lover, only this time, nobody leaves
and there is joy.
Sometimes a weary black wolf
with white whiskers
let's me know
he is still waiting.

Even sitting still, we're travelling.

In dreams, sometimes,
perhaps we're

finally coming home.

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