Orlando
The island looks smaller from the air.
Sheets of blue opening their arms
around the rock and sand hem,
like an old woman
left by her fisherman lover
in the innocent days,
now rising from a blue nest,
an island of her own heart.
The forest is reverently hushed,
pointing to the next life
and eagles nest in her hair.
You walk to the cove in your dark
boots looking at the sand like
a book, reading its indentations.
The breeze lifts the ends of your hair,
plays a little while you think.
Orlando could be anywhere.
You try to silence the sound of your
heart, and his mother. She is everywhere
even if she isn't with you.
The weight of the stone
within her is unbearable.
You listen again.
You finger the sand,
and the foot prints
and the places of no foot prints,
reading each word of no letters.
You listen to the wind, your grandfather,
who steadily hums. His words
are vibrations we measure
inside our heads.
You look to the tall sky disappearing
into the hands of a black night.
We try to light what we cannot see
and some cry. It is easier to wait
with a mission in your breast
and your feet falling one
in front of the other,
than in the camp of mothers.
You would hope Orlando's mother
was out too, in a boat or
inside the bird searching.
The waves came to shore this morning
with empty hands.
The breeze lifts a few thin limbs,
leaves use sign language.
You close your eyes, stand facing the sun.
The red kayak will open its secrets.
Listen,
listen to even that which is silent,
it talks too.
for Orlando and his family
and the Hornby Island search effort
c2011 TLStokes (all rights reserved)
Sheets of blue opening their arms
around the rock and sand hem,
like an old woman
left by her fisherman lover
in the innocent days,
now rising from a blue nest,
an island of her own heart.
The forest is reverently hushed,
pointing to the next life
and eagles nest in her hair.
You walk to the cove in your dark
boots looking at the sand like
a book, reading its indentations.
The breeze lifts the ends of your hair,
plays a little while you think.
Orlando could be anywhere.
You try to silence the sound of your
heart, and his mother. She is everywhere
even if she isn't with you.
The weight of the stone
within her is unbearable.
You listen again.
You finger the sand,
and the foot prints
and the places of no foot prints,
reading each word of no letters.
You listen to the wind, your grandfather,
who steadily hums. His words
are vibrations we measure
inside our heads.
You look to the tall sky disappearing
into the hands of a black night.
We try to light what we cannot see
and some cry. It is easier to wait
with a mission in your breast
and your feet falling one
in front of the other,
than in the camp of mothers.
You would hope Orlando's mother
was out too, in a boat or
inside the bird searching.
The waves came to shore this morning
with empty hands.
The breeze lifts a few thin limbs,
leaves use sign language.
You close your eyes, stand facing the sun.
The red kayak will open its secrets.
Listen,
listen to even that which is silent,
it talks too.
for Orlando and his family
and the Hornby Island search effort
c2011 TLStokes (all rights reserved)
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