Lost.

I went walking without a map,

only the gulls knew the way,

their cries like bright needles

stitching the torn sky.

The path gave out by the cliffs,

and the wind began to speak

in a language I almost remembered.

Grass bent. The sea went on forever.

I thought of all the times

I have not known where I was going,

and still, my feet kept choosing.

Still, the world kept offering itself:

a foxglove trembling,

a gate half open,

a shimmer of rain in the gorse.

Maybe being lost

is just the body remembering

that it belongs

to everything.

And so I stayed there,

in the salt air,

in the unknowing

and was found

by the wind.