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