Throughout my life, beginning very early, there is a place I have visited again and again in my dreams. It could be years between visits, or days. There is no predicting it. I’ve come to think of this place as a way station on the path to self-understanding, or perhaps even self-realization.
I have also looked for it over the years when I’ve driven cross-country. It seems like this place I dream of must actually exist somewhere in the real world. This poem, my 11th terzanelle, was written as I reflected upon this distant place of dream.
Way Station
I found myself among the northern pine,
A place that calls me from the waking world,
Amid the buildings of a nameless town.
There is some comfort here to which I’m pulled
That oftentimes has brought me to this place,
A place that calls me from the waking world.
And here I pass along the streets in peace,
Surrounded by a subtle solitude
That oftentimes has brought me to this place.
A forest climbs the hills on every side
Arising fold on fold above these homes,
Surrounded by a subtle solitude.
This land is somehow more than what it seems;
I sense it all will vanish like the clouds,
Arising fold on fold above these homes.
And still I roam with glee the narrow roads,
Yet always knowing I can never stay;
I sense it all will vanish like the clouds.
Each time I come, I cannot help my joy,
Feeling at home and full of silent hope,
Yet always knowing I can never stay.
Throughout my life, beyond the veil of sleep,
I found myself among the northern pine,
Feeling at home and full of silent hope
Amid the buildings of a nameless town.
