Toward Being
I am not now the nomad I once romanced. My days are more domestic, than wild I find peace in the subtle movement of a garden, and watching the small things about their work. I desire a hand to caress me, in time perhaps a child to hold. I yearn for love that holds me up now, more than a new corner to turn in the road. But the spirit that once wanted wind at by back, still delights to have it play with my hair. Wildness still pulls at my heart and sometimes moves my feet to wander. At the end of the day I find I am not the anything I once believed myself to be, so much more than words and definitions, so less than limitations. I am not a this or a that or a doing, to be a being I must simply be. Although some days I stumble to move myself from stillness, I am moving forward still. Moving toward... Being.