Why does the fog come
With sleep lurking at its edges?
It descends on me,
I never ask for its cloying hands,
Lifting me slowly, unnoticed,
Until I emerge somewhere on a path of wandering,
Not knowing how long or for what reason.
Perhaps I was not strong enough yesterday:
I did not go on marching into my future
Without heed of my exhaustion.
Still, rest mocked me through the night,
There was no respite for waiting.
Sleepless, I read about imagined people whose sorrow
Sifts like silt somewhere through my DNA.
The people might be fictional,
But the history happened.
Why revisit hungry eyes, pleading faces
Filling the void, frozen in fog?
I already relived them before,
Angry at my helplessness in the face of time.
I can do nothing for two hundred years ago
To quell their desperation and my own.
Their hands, their eyes, their words
Sound and look and feel like mine.
Flailing through this mist of many origins, I cry out,
Searching for you, needing you here.
You come, soul sister, Take my hand,
Touch the top of my head as if consoling a disconsolate child,
Showing me how to feel passed the sadness,
And return to myself, steady and grounded.
I fall asleep at dawn, enfolded gratefully in your arms,
The song of light wrapping us in peaceful calm.