unsplash photo of a bicycle wheel and a worn, wrinkled sofa

“I am not old” — Samantha Reynolds

I am not old, she said I am rare I am the standing ovation at the end of the play I am the retrospective of my life as art I am the hours connected like dots into good sense I am the fullness of existing you think I am waiting to die but I am waiting to be found I am a treasure I am a map these wrinkles are imprints of my journey ask me anything. image courtesy Yulia… Read more

Men at Forty

Men at forty Learn to close softly The doors to rooms they will not be Coming back to. At rest on a stair landing, They feel it Moving beneath them now like the deck of a ship, Though the swell is gentle. And deep in mirrors They rediscover The face of the boy as he practices tying His father’s tie there in secret. And the face of that father, Still warm with the mystery of lather. They are more fathers… Read more

The point at Finisterre as seen from the sea

Finisterre — David Whyte

The road in the end taking the path the sun had taken, into the western sea, and the moon rising behind you as you stood where ground turned to ocean: no way to your future now but the way your shadow could take, walking before you across water, going where shadows go, no way to make sense of a world that wouldn’t let you pass except to call an end to the way you had come, to take out each… Read more

Sunset at Aït Ben Haddou, Morocco

The Journey — David Whyte

Above the mountains the geese turn into the light again, painting their black silhouettes on an open sky. Sometimes everything has to be enscribed across the heavens so you can find the one line already written inside you. Sometimes it takes a great sky to find that first, bright and indescribable wedge of freedom in your own heart. Sometimes with the bones of the black sticks left when the fire has gone out someone has written something new in the… Read more

The author. The beach at Little Dip Conservation Park.

Time Left Alone — David Whyte

… tired of ourselves … But tired of land, we open ourselves to oceans, tired of time we give back all that we’ve taken, tired of ourselves we open ourselves to ourselves at last, sensing the waves and great abyss of the sea beyond, the ocean stretching on sand and the long view on the still sea that leads to another life. From Time Left Alone: in ‘River Flow: New and Selected Poems’ David Whyte