A storm has come.

I am caught
between my home and my being;
where I live, who I am.

A sickness lays the land waste.
I shelter, sleep on a death bed
not yet my own, where others have lain.
I feel their souls push into me
from behind, they slide through me
go before me. Come! See!
We’ve been here before.

Let them be.
I bear their burden into the unknown,
my passage marked by weight
of all I carry, of beings,
companions on the way.

The storm flits and frets about
laying waste to my place and past
but not to me or my own.

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Portland, Oregon – March 13, 2019

Lenten springtime.