15 April 2007
How deep is the boundary separating us?
I hear drumming in the distance.
You are on the front porch
watching torn cotton clouds,
waiting for me to come home,
not knowing when I will come home
because the shadows are deeper and the storm is coming
and the forest is heavy and devoid of certainty,
and I cannot be counted on to come home in time.
It is difficult to be sitting, waiting, wondering.
It is getting late, the first mosquitoes have taken flight,
soon to be frenzied into a blood lust of swarms.
I am walking through the woods, breaking branches underfoot,
waving the mosquitoes here and there as I walk,
the sound of drumbeats and human voices in the distance.
I can feel your energy pulsating through the forest,
while you sit on the porch gazing into the darkness
that separates the trees and beckons the imagination.
You find yourself rushing down a crowded street,
cutting across traffic, dodging in and out,
white lines, yellow lines, bumpers chuckling.
You reach the other side, and the forest is the same.
I know that you need me to reach you before dark,
and I hurry through the bramble, stumbling forward,
but not knowing if I can reach you in time.
The clouds, the canopy of treetops, the mosquitoes, the drums,
the drumbeats of heartbeats syncronized in a common rhythm.
Eyes opening slowly, I awaken in the white porch swing
where, in my childhood, you would sit waiting,
waiting for me to come home.
My boundaries have been redrawn,
but the memories seem the same.
© 2007, Satya J. Gabriel