“Who Am I?”
I am lightly anchored to the Earth,
drifting gently on my mooring lines
when the wind is strong … Or, when
the water rises, I pull in the lines
and ride the tide of river flood
or ocean until I stretch a hand
or foot to snag another point of rest,
and tie me down to sleep.
A rumor passed from mouth to ear
in almost silent confidence, saying
‘We were left here, still too young
to travel to the stars, to get back home,
before our parents had to leave. And so …’
they left us here to wait. What happened,
that no one returned to find us? All
the others of us ‘made the best of it’.
Who am I, on this strange ground? Writing.
Watching the sky at night. Listening
to the cries of ocean creatures also lost
and calling out, “I’m here! We’re here!
Come! Don’t leave us here to die alone!”
Where can I leave a cairn that they will find
when I can no longer see or hear or wait
for their final, longed-for landing?
Copyright © 2017-04-07, by E. W. Bennefeld.