I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being 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 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 whever 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 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.