Memories come on wings of light
A shining bird, high pines in the sun
The fire in a floating leaf
The autumn heat in weathered wood
Soft lichen on a stone.
A light-filled imminence simmering and breaking,
Leaving me breathless and in pain.
This sickness of infinitude that leads to the madhouse,
This ‘self remembering’ of the present
Instead of wandering the ephemeral worlds
Of past and future.
I was a true believer in my magic carpet,
Ready to fly as far as it would take me.
The search begins with a restless feeling,
As if one is being watched.
One turns in all directions but sees nothing.
The path that leads here is not a path to a strange place
But the path home.
But you are home
Cries the Witch of the North
All you have to do is wake up.