A Return
At this time of year
my mind becomes like warped metal
holding up the sides of a ship
as sea cascades over bows.
In this season
my scars return, that tell me life
is no more than the secrets stolen
from the island of a master.
In this mood hurricanes,
and elsewhere volcanoes, spewing
eruptions, whereby many thousands
lose their life, are nothing to me.
I have climbed the sacred tree
peered, through boughs, hung where most
art hangs too, wondering
about a return.
© george wicker 2006