The ending is the beginning, and the beginning
is the first step, and the first step is the only step.
— J. Krishnamurti
For a year, I lived where anything seemed possible.
The stars at night were like sparkles on dark water,
a mellow kind of vertigo that made me feel
I had ascended. I got up when the sun came up,
drove my battered car through citrus groves
to a job some said was a dead end,
though it wasn’t that for me. I drove
with all the windows down, my hair
streaming out in electrical currents
of orange-blossom air. Most days
I saw Krishnamurti walking along the road,
robes billowing. He always waved. He glowed.
By late afternoon, everything was still:
tricked-out shacks and bungalows,
dogs asleep in the shade of valley oaks.
I turned left at the faded wooden carousel
where the mail truck stopped six days a week
to spin the wheel of postal fortune. My cabin
sat at the end of the road—the kind of road
you don’t see until you get there. Prickly pears
grew wild by the door. All you had to do
to grow more was snap off a paddle
and toss it in the dirt. That was how
I wanted to be—nomadic, easy to root,
flowering even as I healed.
–
Brett Warren (she/her) is the author of The Map of Unseen Things (Pine Row Press, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in Canary, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Harbor Review, Hole in the Head Review, ONE ART, Rise Up Review, SWWIM, and elsewhere. She is a triple nominee for Best of the Net 2023 (Poetry). Learn more at www.brettwarrenpoetry.com.
© 2024, Brett Warren
Halfway Down the Stairs 