Winter storm brings another sentiment, walking wandering, in the
darkest passing of the season; and in walking alone, I found myself,
cast into the winds of the northbound rage, coming forth, running up
the hills, swirling in that high rhythm, trees humming with the rain —
the sonorous call of that one, also alone, but everywhere. Everything.
All the while, the sea calls and calls, ceaselessly, the washing torrent,
like that force that she is — always the same, in her action, coming.
And coming. It’s like she’s rising from the baseline of who she is.
She wants out, and up. And in walking the black path, up the old road,
now strewn with all the gatherings of the other storms, she’s
shouting that: I’m coming. I’m coming forth for you, to you. Then
I’m rising out of this place where I am, and I’m reaching out. For you.
I can taste the salt of the day in my eyes, washing down, all the places that
I’ve been, my skin a long gathering of what’s within, now without, coursing.
And I realize that she’s already here, this one, that sea, she. She and I
already know each other, our histories intertwine, in me finding that, her,
just this instance in the long walking in the dark. Black beauty, that she
is now, stormbringer, raincaster, windrunner and storyteller, beckoning:
I’m coming for you, since I know you. And you know me, embrace me – home.
If you are not with me, then I am thinking of you, missing that selfsame gait.
In being out, wandering, as has long been the soul of our connections —
each other, bound to the path, the wander, the sea, that found. That, still unknown.
And that which remains to be discovered. Uncovering, that which is the more. In us.
tsg | stormbound | decatur island