I am weary of walking its winding way,
Of chasing an elusive blue butterfly.
This body cannot conjure the joy of the journey now.
It is not that I am lost;
I have merely lost sight.
So, I sit, slump, close my eyes, rest.
And the Water Bearer comes.
Her benediction rains down on me,
Her raised hand a sign of acceptance.
She does not tell me what or why;
She simply blesses.
I will resume my search.
I may never find the center
And what may or may not reside there.
Like Rilke, I circle
And still have no idea of what I am.
The endeavor is all.