Sunday, September 30, 2018
Travelers
Travelers
We were not the pretty ones.
We did not win prizes,
get elected class president.
We spent our time in the library,
among the books, our friends.
Thus we met Dante and Milton,
Rumi and Shakespeare,
Emerson and Walt,
Emily and Elizabeth B.
Or perhaps we rehearsed
with the chorus,
or painted in the studio
where the masters lived.
These were an august company.
We learned a lot from them.
Unimaginable things happened to us,
things we could not share.
We inhabited two worlds,
one invisible,
one seen.
Always we were longing
for more,
some jewel we had lost,
a line of poetry
we couldn't quite recall.
Occasionally we met
someone
on a parallel path,
and we shared notions
and ideas,
thoughts about the world.
Later we had friends,
persons of similar interests
or lovers, often untrue.
Mostly we were alone,
on a journey crafted for us
elsewhere,
taking us to a destination
unknown
but we knew it was right
for us,
preparing us
for the inexplicable,
shattering us
into the real.
Dorothy Walters
September 30, 2018
