beginnings

top of staffa

climbing to the plateau on top of staffa, truly the top of the world, i remembered the golden-berried rowan in millennium wood, i could imagine circe and the cyclops, as well the siren song of skylla and kharybis, and knew, despite the detours, that i too would make it to ithaca. even the grasses laid down flat by the wind struck me as almost too much of a metaphor, showing me by their example that giving in to the wind was better than fighting against it. welcome, home.