Jill Bolte Taylor's Stroke of Insight

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Saturday, May 9, 2015

the wanderer

i am a wanderer tonight
walking the dog through quiet streets in the soft dark
stepping around pools of light where moths have gathered
to worship false gods.
the wind is jasmine, rosemary, woodsmoke
it greets my lonesome skin like a lover's touch
long gone but still remembered.
we stop near a vacant lot grown wild with flowers
where lightning bugs sing their bright song
in a secret semaphore:
here a question, there an answer
over and over, until they find one another
above the whispering grass
and begin the only dance they know.
it is a beautiful place, my little world
but i don't want to be here anymore
i am carrying too much weight and it has been too long
staying in one place
and this is not what wanderers do.
too many months and years
too long spent in this life alone; the one i came here to find
has gone, or was never here at all.

and i'm sure it was me, who said long ago
that i would be the one to choose
when to leave: like any night creature
if i found myself falling from a great height
i would simply arch my spine
turn in midair
shed any unnecessary weight
and begin to soar.

so i am falling
and so i will fly.
goodbye.








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