The only communion I want to make these days
Is with the trees, the grass, the flowers, the sky.
Having traveled the River Styx for many a year--
Having been an actor in a Greek tragedy
Set in the wrong century--
I ask, in what literary genre
Am I to participate now?
It's time to claim my artistry, my certainty,
my own beauty.
Trying to align my life with cause and causation
Left me begging for constant forgiveness.
The communion of saints is under my feet.
It fills my nostrils and envelops my mind.
I give up the foregone conclusions
of polite society.
I jump into the stillness of my heart, the unknown.
I swim in its vastness.
I, like Odysseus, will never give up
Telling the stories of my adventure homeward.