Lights
Little moth
moonlit blur brushing
my skin, you were slipping in
before I could close the door
on the night, wings
shimmering silver
whispering of sage
and cicadas, you were in
clinging to the lights
before I could warn you
this isn’t the place
you are looking for.
But here you are,
searching the lights.
And I smile,
for like you I have breathed
the night air listening for
the drumbeat of unknown
roads, slipping in doorways,
listening on the borders
of porches and fringes
of firelight on this
search for truth, for
freedom, for beginning,
lingering lyric waiting
for a chord.
Like you,
searching the lights.
Listening to the voices
of prophets and poets
and opinion-gods, searching
for eyes that recognize,
watching the sleep-creased
lids of the morning and
the orbs of firefly skies
from pillows of stone,
looking in the far-flung
horizon for the shy promise
of belonging and
moments of home.
Searching the lights,
trying to stay.
But every time
I think I have found a
place to hold me, something
or someone beckons me
out of the valley of
campfires and porches and
voices, beyond the circle of
lights it stands, the wine
waiting for lips, waiting
for me to understand
that this is not the place.
Not yet.
For now, I’m
still searching the lights.
But someday
there will be a campfire
by the sea, ringed with rocks
and answering heartbeats
or an old wooden porch
flaking paint, with a lamp
lighting the sighing of pines
beneath wild skies, and
love-warmed floorboards
holding bare feet and
a chair waiting, gentle
for me to be
No longer searching
the lights.
