True North  

A Sunday morning
Soft flakes outside my window
And you, on a snowy line
Our signals lost
again and again
but persistence remains.
You keep trying to reach me
your voice more impatient,
pain crackling through static,
your hand straining to touch
what is already gone.
Or never was, can never be.

I try to show you.
See this I say,
this longing inside, this great need
that you cannot fill.
But your eyes do not see.
Blind man stumbling through
the darkness of this woman’s soul.
I’ve tried to light a candle,
to illuminate the mystery
I’ve taken your hands, to show you the depths
of the current that flows
but amputated fingers
have no ability to stroke
and you cannot swim
against the force of this river
that flows inevitably towards
my true north.

 

© 2006  Deborah Vos