Even Halfway

A maelstrom rages inside me

in its current I see buoying faces,

the drowning semblances of all I ever was

Helplessly, I describe its flow

from the perspective of a log in the waves,

and in my arrogance,

call it poetry.

These all pervasive waters

pull me into strange places.

writing is the anchor that

reorients me in its chaos

and from life's unpredictable, disorienting stream

keeps me on the straight and narrow

I often don't know how to think

or what I think and feel

until I write it down,

but today I stared at the blank page,

and wondered,

why is it that I often struggle

to write adequate poetry about you,

and our love?

That's when I remembered a walk I took

gliding calm and steady through the forest

the plants and trees beginning to become verdant after

the slow choke of spring showers

the sun's rays piercing through the branches

forming peninsulas of light on the ground

I reached a clearing and saw a ravine;

still and serene,

and that's when I thought of you.

It's then that I realized:

What sense is there to make

of a still lake?

What chaos to unfurl?

What point is there in poetry

if our love speaks for itself--

if a poem can't encapsulate

the pull of your ocean eyes,

even halfway?