Waters of home

The days shift like sand
over these old dunes.
I stand as a flag
in this timeless desert,
dancing with the winds
that have travelled to meet me,
reading their designs like
gold letters in strange words
that hold as much as they hide.

If I move with the signs of time
it is not to arrive at some richer land,
it is only to untangle
this braid of birth and death,
to sound the drum whose rhythms
will reveal this silence
like flowers unfolding
under the full moon,
in bloom for weary travelers
seeking waters of home.