Inn of the Wandering Dragon

It's hard to accept that your day there

rolls on, is still to happen

while mine is done

as it's hard to accept that the dead

go on, loving, growing even

distinctly away from us,

their voices thinner than telephone wire.

What kind of letter can bridge this?

How can the feet we once

dropped all disgust to kiss step calmly

over new continents or turn firmly

for destinations unseen by us?

Dust is the mouth's taste

in absence, dust the ground

that swallows all footprints

with indifference.

Transatlantic, by Tracy Ryan

Odly enough, it was in a brief interlude at work today while watching myrtle scratching at the rock that brought this poem to mind. I first read the poem in the belly of a sailing ship roughly 6 years ago. We were at anchor in the Banda islands in Indonesia and I had freely pillaged the ship's library while enjoying a quiet time before the heat of the day set in. Back then this poem was for me a solid kick to the ribs and all the homesickness, lonliness and heartache came pouring out in a rush of tears that lasted the better part of the morning. Those few crewmembers still around at the time were suprised to say the least. As was I. It remains one of my favorite poems to this day, like favorite works of art and memory I carry several poems around with me. Now and then one of those poems comes to the forefront although I may not know why, but I will dig through my books to find it again and re-read it for the umpteenth time. Such is the power of those things and ideas that truly resonate with us.