Connection

Here, in a place

That is only quiet on the surface;

There is a faucet that runs

As constant as the night

at the closing of the year.

I wash my tired face

I soak and scrub the few faded decades

off of this map on my hands.

I inhale the pulsating fragrance

of my freshly varnished hopes and plans.

I am unsure if I am an extension

of this giant spinning world,

or if it is a dizzy part of me.

Whatever the connection may be;

It stirs question upon question

That entertains the hopelessness

And transforms it

into something butterfly-like.

Contemplation of what I am

and what I should be doing here

Overflows and dampens

 the sympathetic air

I’m never a step closer to knowing

But all the stars my eyes have met

Are there, bright in the sky, still showing;

and something about that sight

urges this wanderer to keep going.