Monday, January 16, 2006


16 January 2006, 11:07 AM

There’s a little rock-fort
at the foot of the Sycamore beside the reservoir
It faces south
as does she

I sit upon the stony ledge
watch the ripples coming
perpetually rolling toward the shore

They never turn back

though there’s nowhere left to go
Whither do those ripples wash away?
They disappear beyond the confines of the reservoir
They roll along far past the place at which
my eyes fail to see them any longer

Perhaps there is a place
beyond the murky boundaries of the reservoir
where water finally meets its mark
finds me unprepared for its
gracious brutality
in the moment when I cease failing to see
those waters of the reservoir have less to do with
simple lovely imagery
and more to do with what I’ve never sought to see
what I’ve struggled not to see
inside of me

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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