(The Sunday Whirl – Wordle #77 for Week of October 7-13, 2012)
I am no longer I, but I am.
I walk along an obscure path that I,
in ignorance, had cleared for myself.
Every leaf of every tree, each branch,
all blades of grass take note of me
as I pass.
It was no gentle breeze that powered through my will.
What once was unbreakable, bending in the storm,
has grown brittle, a fragile thing in the wake
of your gale-force charm. The skin of my reason
is crusted over, only to be exploded and destroyed –
I am so easily exposed and dismissed.
It is a fever that has taken me away. Vain efforts
at mending what has broken apart only exploit
the frail form of what I thought invisible.
No cry comes from dust and ashes – no piercing wail;
only the shuffling of empty shoes that rustle through
the detritus of pride, the husks of my soul’s sheaths
and all that I had gathered to me, a protection
from the unbearable humiliation of self-revelation.
I stop briefly on the river bank, where the willows
once draped over my being. But it is winter.
The water rushes on, and takes note of me,
then passes on.
Well, have I depressed you all enough. . .?
(As an antidote, take a peaceful seven minutes and watch the slide show, with music, I recently posted on the “Nature – Flora” page of “Reflected Glory – My Adventures in Photography.”)