With the ghost
in the navigator’s seat,
we turn into the deluge,
proceeding on blind faith,
and praying the road
will rise to meet us —
a crescendo
we can neither touch
nor feel.

Long we left
the map behind,
but I always had
a sense of direction
and perception
of all the ways
matter must occupy space.

We might fall,
we might fail,
we might find the hidden road.
Bedeviled with ignorant angels,
we ride the storm —
seeking silver light,
greeting each breaking
with weary welcome.
The weaving will be
as it wills.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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