How is it that
I have known
to return to the
delightful pieces
of the childhood
from which I came.
Slowly, each
year of aging finds
me rendering more
grist from some
far off and
original mills of
my life.
Mills by the edge
of the stream
where easy nibbling
through the cast off
crumbs of corn is
an ambient way of
being.
The love of painting
pictures to share with
others, a hankering for
Sea-Monkeys, and Dracula,
the Hardy Boys, and
comics of Batman.
Reading of Ponce
de Leon, of Crockett
and Boone, of Queequeg
and Ishmael.
Not the harsh
and bitter krill
of my days at sea,
or the fought for
flesh of battles won
out in the deep
of my adult life,
but
the gentle
cascading wonder
of the wholesome
inner child that nursed
at the glorious teat
of all that was
innocent and true.
Remnants dangling in
the spaces before my
climb;
my climb up the river
of my returning,
the river from where
I was once was
brought
into the waters of life.
Leaving behind all
that I survived through
in the harsh waves and
deep swells of open
ocean devoid of sea foam.
I swim back up through
my familiar. I make my
way through hints of my me
and rivulets of influence
that not only nourish
but sustain.
Growing older
is not the battle I
once believed. It has
become a gentle
remembrance of where
I have learned to swim
and find myself angling
for another kernel
of what feeds my soul.
Not so much from
new waters, but from
the seams and structure
of my familiar. From
the waters out of which
my anadromous soul first
swam on its pull toward
the salty seas. Out of
the loveliness and apparent
safety of the shoals of
my companions and
the slack waters of nuanced
interests and youthful
delight.
I have found these waters
of my return to be just
enough for what I need;
and yet, in the magic of
who it is we all become
they are always, yet
always more.
So much more.
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