Novels

Where Writing Leads

All I have lost—turning to desire—as I speak these words
Onto this page, this flat sea of memory.  I set my sails;
Yearning pulls the shrouds.  I plot a course,
Wait for the wind to rise.

Dead calm, and then, a breeze growing,
And then, a ripple, a whirl.
Images surface, some bouying, some breaching—vessels,
Vessels carrying voices, human and otherwise.

Lines and chains run out over the side. Hauled back in
Pulling others through the roiling surface.  Each new voice
Embodied in body-less words projecting aloud from the whiteness.
Confounding death.  Rising again.  Re-created.

Voices calling, mind releasing.  Voices calling,
Echoing, reverberating, breathing wind across the flat sea.
Sails billow and catch, drawing me in, heaving me up,
Cutting the water, driving in waves of memory.

They rise, crest, break over me, till I cry for joy and sorrow, tears

Rain on the dry sea. And then I know. I understand.  
All I have lost, all the flesh and bones drowned deep below,
Will be regained.