The moon's choreography is less reliable now. Unlike the obedient tides my body chooses its own tempo, sways out of rhythm then drifts in step again for a measure or two.
It surprises my attention. I had forgotten this last bend in the yawing currents; Did not expect as much drama as at the beginning, when childhood washed away like an unguarded doll at the water's edge; Or in the middle, when all of me swelled with the briny broth of a stranger's life. Now again, I search the mirror, hunt for how my face reveals the changing course within.
People say I do not look my age, as if I'd won a prize. They say I am too young to parenthesize the moon. I can not always say I do not like what people say; Do not, some days want to conjour back the blood, rejoin the familiar round. Do not, like a lone sailor in a cloud-thick night, long to drop anchor and forget the creaking tiller the unknown destination the shape of undreamt shores.
found in Claiming the Spirit Within a sourcebook of women's poetry ed by Marilyn Sewell