We move in and out,
mere breath like wind through open windows
sill waiting to catch a bit of the morning light
while birds of a thousand feathers scatter
as the cat treads stealthily through the grass.
There is always that sense nearby,
the underlying lurking of things unsaid
and moods cast aside with unintentional force,
we become specters of self as feet move
tired in the damp and musty air.
Where has the cool wind gone that I recall,
night of dreams of eagerness through fear
as the words are lost in the shuffle of paper
and we suddenly see we are drowning in our quest,
taking charge before a hundred waiting faces
we close our eyes and slip away to the shadows
wondering where the ideas had come from and gone.
The lighthouse waits to show the way,
penned by a soul I know not well
and I will know her words for I am drawn
into the waves of passing days
and a continent away foreign and unknown,
I will come to know across this space and time
through yellowed pages of a dime-store book
left behind gently used
eager I will learn
what it is, this ghost of form
that called me to hear the wind of yesterday.
Strange dreams came calling last night and today by chance happened into a thrift store and bought a dirt cheap copy of Virginia Woolf’s “To the lighthouse” to read at my leisure. I have not every read any Woolf so looking forward to what I may find within the pages.