Robert Ludden Poet Free verse

Mind Flight

The forest path pretends a voice
of purpose through distraction,
birds sound their curious intent, and then
the voices all around will cease to be,
time slows down,  the lake
too far away to break the spell.

There when the leaves were down,
I bought the measure of an ending
that would crush a saint, a wild cry
inside me, resonating in a memory
engraved in pain that only I could know.

Late autumn is the time for gathering
not only of the harvest, but the fruits
of loss, the tearing, grinding
resignation of the sundered heart,
ever too obtuse to understand

Then it is one may perceive
the place within, the soft retreat
that speaks a stranger tongue—
a flight from mindlessness 
to that familiar silent hovering. 
A restless peace it is, but on another plain, 
with still another kind of joy 
that glows behind the sunset clouds.

There is a promise still to come
that one may count upon—
to be sure, as yet unknown.
The flight is past.
The mind is home.
                 ~

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