The Travelers

Sometimes we stop trying.
We sit back, and let it come.
And I like this softer side of
effort, washing water over
stone, slow and powerful and

Still, I wonder why the easiest things
are, sometimes, the hardest, like

Your luggage, all packed full of
science, and logic. While mine is
a jumble of spirit and song. 
Remember the fortune teller
in Hong Kong, the one
with black portal eyes,  

“Your dreams are time travel, and this life, is but one of many”
she said.

How all I could do was tremble in  
resonance.  How much we needed each other
in that moment; and always.

You, continue wanting to climb out
from underneath the layers
and the veils and bubble wrap casing,
this deep complexity of art.

I continue wanting always
to burrow further into it, 
into that vast see of: 
unknowing – knowing – known.

Until all that’s left is dust,
and vibration. And we run
out of our questions. Like running
out of time for childhood and nostalgia.

That place exists; the one we’re looking for.
We keep circling it, waiting for a more
permanent landing. 
But, have we not been there before?
Perhaps sharing a taxi or a meal
or some whiskey. Perhaps we sat
in silence and understanding.

Perhaps we will meet there, again, 
sometime, somewhere.  And there will be
more than enough space for your
and mine.

-Micah Stover

PoetryJulia NusbaumComment