top of page

the silent language of the night
- for my daughter
It took the intervention of the moon
and the silent language of the night
for me to see that she was leaving.
I gave her a father’s gifts
(I’m sure you’d do the same),
a compass composed of memories
and a nomad’s purse
woven of shadow and feather
from which forever falls
a trail of crystals
leading home.
I see her wearing
the back of my younger head
as she walks away, unturning.
Heading onto the trail
that I had abandoned
to not abandon her
a lifetime ago.
Published in Bacopa: A Literary Review
bottom of page