The Promises of Each
On the bay side, it is quiet.
Even the waves whisper.
The wind is silent,
The only sound, your feet in the sand as you walk.
And when you stop,
There is silence.
Your head too, is quiet.
Days of no schedules, no promises to keep,
meals with no timetables, and hours
have let the demons drift out to sea with the tide.
This is it, the purging of poisons,
of the creatures inside your head,
that preserves your life,
a conscious thing, a decision to drain the pus,
swab the sores,
and become, if not well, at least cleansed
and empty, ready
to see the world anew,
more as it is, and less a Bruegel nightmare
of lies and art,
to make room
for God and love and
the promises of each.
About this poem
Back from a few days at Cape Cod, with a clear head and a new bride. That getting away, whether physical, or meditational, is something I have to do regularly. Kind of an emptying of the trash in my head.