History says, Don't hope
On this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.
~ Seamus Heaney in THE CURE AT TROY: A VERSION OF SOPHOCLES' PHILOCTETES
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The Beloved listens as I dovetail words into walls and walk in winter landscapes.
None of the alien, snowbanked roads lead home. Even as I speak, the shadows shift across the stones I have tried to mortar into place.
The beloved listens and weaves willow silences into my words.
The quietness of Love builds me a better harbor than words ever could, a place from which to sail, a place to remember on the map I navigate by, where the heart of the compass rose is home.