I first felt

the longing with little comfort,

as a shape with sharp edges.

I dared myself into a corner

and lost even the impulse for serenity.

In the grey afternoon, coming home,

I saw an inscription in the space

between clouds and knew

I had outgrown looking for signs –

The wind is a river and a house (any house)

is a dead log left in the elements, harbouring life

in its dead crusty dampness.

I had come full circle just by surviving,

back to the longing that existed before –

this time, void of grandiose significance,

existing now like an urge, strong as fire, natural

as deformity.



Copyright © 2008 by Allison Grayhurst



First published in “Oddball Magazine!”



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