The Layers

Amelia sent me this poem, and it resonated so strongly with me, that I felt it needed it's own post.

I have walked through many lives,

Some of them my own,

And I am not who I was,

Though some principle of being

Abides, from which I struggle not to stray.

When I look behind,

As I am compelled to look

Before I can gather strength

To proceed on my journey,

I see the milestones dwindling

Toward the horizon

And the slow fires trailing

From the abandoned camp-sites,

Over which scavenger angels

Wheel on heavy wings.

Oh, I have made myself a tribe

Out of my true affections,

And my tribe is scattered!

How shall the heart be reconciled

To its feast of losses?

In a rising wind

The manic dust of my friends,

Those who fell along the way,

Bitterly stings my face.

Yet I turn, I turn,

Exulting somewhat,

With my will intact to go

Wherever I need to go,

And every stone on the road

Precious to me.

In my darkest night,

When the moon was covered

And I roamed through wreckage,

A nimbus-clouded voice

Directed me:

"Live in the layers,

Not on the litter."

Though I lack the art

To decipher it,

No doubt the next chapter

In my book of transformations

Is already written.

I am not done with my changes. 

--Stanley Kunitz