The calling persists. An emerging feeling , friend or foe, reminding, yet tormenting. That inescapable drumming on the window to the universe. A complacent waking and stirring of invisible desire, mysteriously and persistently materializing just as all falls silent. Then pressing for action. Intrusive almost, without providing direction, at least not such as the mind seeks. The incessant knock, the untamed beast, forcefully rattling the binding chains. A cry for freedom in the electric muttering, passionately prodding a deeper longing, striking fertile ground. Without doubt there is a recipient to the call. A seed deliberately plunged into the waiting soul , one for each, distinct by design. A roar in a shell, aching to be freed, to plaster the canvas with life’s transmission.

Maybe choice, or fate, or the breathing ripples of being in this worldly experience. I am reminded of resistance or acceptance, taking hold of the inner force as if reaching out for the hand that guides the blind , a trusting endeavor. But really, I question choice: when life knocks, I answer. Lead on.

Meet hunger, perched on the windowsill, barking at stomach. What’s another kind of hunger? Rage or want, or rage in want, or appetite and craving: restless dark sky, expectant orange hue emerging still on mother’s horizon.

Fiercer yet: troubled soul in open water, thirst for wave and thunder, break keel, drown hull, the red in pomegranate spills.

No – really, the contours of a waking smile, sooner the muscles stretch, already discernible, like the child’s hand, an extension of pen and paper forming a round shape, top of page, reaching outward rays upon rays. Sun and smile – who would have known to find calm in stormy seas?

A plea for patience, guidance, help. One a signpost

, a sudden stirring from within. Scattered seed, weaved into earth, a threaded needle pricks and pricks until it’s heard. The other an urgent query for direction. It must be now. Handheld desperation, when thousand winding lanes come clashing and human babe must cross.

Certainty is fleeting when governed by thought. Dismiss belief. This one is by far more convincing and trustworthy, though it cannot be owned. Sign over sailor to sea, child to parent, soul to origin. The circling hand prolongs my sun, an always longing met and nourished.

Rather the circumstances were different – smoke obscures the poster hanging on the brick wall. Bold letters droop heavily from the worn canvas. At the right-hand corner, just where the wall slips out from underneath the banner, waits a little space. Waits on the soft graze of nearly folded wings. A brief chirp addresses no one in particular. Maybe the return home hastily announced. The swift breeze skips along the block as if to hide and remain unknown. A hurried peek-a-boo extended breath across the suspended drape lifts it by the hem , permeates a single moment with whirl and swoosh and uncoordinated flutter – hides bird and voice and wing, spells freedom in all caps. Something resonates within.

The miracle sea only I can see, like this. The obverse of my daily dose of thoughts on display as my heart glides just slightly above the skin of the impermanent sea, so as not to touch or disturb. Plainly a game of silent approximation, both never seemed more alike. The throbbing skin, the four chambers softly breathing hello, the aorta pulsing life in the depths beyond sight – the heart of the sea. I marvel at its membrane, stretching far. As it imitates my inner drum, I too cross the void in sudden compulsion to belong. Every encounter leaves an imprint on the organism. Game shifts to dance

, an orchestrated, spontaneous and unmet, forceful advance in space, time and form.

Instantaneously I arrive at the other side. Light across the sea. The not-knowing, but trusting, the hazy outline is forever enough. I find complacency in the wisdom of my heart as it too is swept across the shore, here and there in perfect synchrony.