Exile

Nov 20 2009  

I came to the end of my world and hung up my harp. 

Or maybe it was that life overwhelmed and my heart went into exile.

But, not belittling my malaise, you sent a Kindred Spirit

To rouse me from my silent grave.

Live, you said. 

Plant, marry, and have children. 

In your exile, petition for the good of this place.

Eat. Sing.

And my Sister, she plucked the strings

And I was compelled to follow.

For she was an arrow loosed 

That struck deep into the heartwood.

I fit myself like my Sister 

And the thermals of my own life

Give rise to many gliding patterns;

Her beauty is transposed and I become radiant. 

“I will not listen to any others,” said my Brother,

“But only to my own true song.” 

I understand this. But now I am compelled as Seer 

To loose my form. Loose it.

Truth be told, we all shape shift

And I surrender like a lamb.

(It is not the Eagle, or the Lion, or the Fish we emulate, in truth

But the one which opens into a thousand thousand throats.)

In distress, I laid aside my harp

Life had become foreign to me

Yet you  invested me with a fellowship of strings

And Kin to recast the songs  

Of  River and Tree and Healer

Of Fair Folk on shining paths

And I, exiled to some distant soil to await my dancing day,

I sing.