With the obtuse vision of a walker in fog—
not valley fog, heath fog, exterior weather,
but mind fog, storm thoughts, a life
clenched in grayness of purpose,
years without sunlight or promise of sun—
with such vision, with such lack of vision,
I heard through the dank weight of numbness a clarion voice.
The tight mist fanned loosely for a moment
before bleakness compressed me again,
but I found myself moving toward it, that voice.
And the journey was legion, out of quicksand
into forest, on to pasture—
then ocean and fathomless light.
Though I begged not to hear it, though I huddled
in old coats of shadow, clung to tree stumps
and vacuous moon, the still voice of Truth
compelled to this moment of clarity.
My raw feet are walking on starfish,
addressing the ocean's rim. The vista spreads
vastly before me. What have eyes been till now.
