Enough of life

Enough of life
and that hangover called regret.
I take nothing from its promises
kept or not.

Thoughts shift and slide and
track patterns of restlessness
into a chaos of
days and days and days.

And the outcome
of all this tumbled,
unforgiving, unawareness
is the beginning of me.

This supposed me,
author, self-ruler, best reader,
always with final say,
has nothing remarkable to conclude.

Instead, I wait and listen
for that gentle silence,
the motion of my heart,
calling, singing my name.

A silence that is not blind
to my dissatisfactions,
to my haven of indifference
I've called home.

But translates this heart solitude,
the pull of unspoken moments,
into a wordless knowing,
“I am here.”

And I,
beyond familiar mooring,
becalmed within,
reply, “I know.”