Pilgrim's Path

oregon coastI can no more turn around
than I can weave a rope of sand or
coin the name of the faceless wind.
Mired in ancient, sacred mud,
I dedicate my scruples and my
sleepless nights to the tenacious
act of re-inventing myself without your image.
 
Some say the heart is the size of a
closed fist; it is vertiginous
matter—active, warm, secret. But
my heart looks for you everywhere,
I stretch arthritic fingers in prayer,
kneel in supplication to the numina
of earth and river, close my ears
to the melancholy cry of a mocking
bird, and leave off dreaming about you.
Notes: 

First Poetic Asides poem since last April. The prompt for today was "turn around." And today being Ash Wednesday, I guess I was thinking a lot about the hold "God" still has on me, even though I no longer believe in him.