Something is not coming
from out of the thin curving horizon.
I cannot wait for what may be
as if the future was a being with power
rather than an illusion, a chimaera of time.

Hours and days, years I’ve lost seeking
a phantom I thought might be
sought in the night, could have become real
imagined would be if I were another.

I have lost myself in a tyranny
of expectations, plans, dreams
as a child wishing for unicorns and faeries.
It, whatever it is for me,
is not out there or on it’s way
from a never-never land before me
as if my steps would take me there.

What I wait for is in my loins
my essential self as a pure oil –
balm and nectar – heart, soul, salve, healing.
My projects and plans
my precious hopes and dreams
vanish before me again and again
while in me is stirred the cauldron of life.

Hope has no foot in tomorrow
but walks the path of each moment
as the shadow of my steps
on the path below my feet
on this day and in this season
as the leaves begin to fall
the wind bristles the hair on my arms
the light slants low over the horizon
and I swallow an evening star
as it lowers gently before my eyes.

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Portland, Oregon – September 4, 2018