At the Edge

I sit, at the edge
of civilization, I
gather myself,
taking time to
collect and sort
wild thoughts,

like pieces of paper
into a filing cabinet:
emotions,
artistic imaginings,
sociological theories,
and an ominous
category,
the uncertain.

As I stare in
all directions,
the landscape emerges
in a way it hadn't before,

ground so flat you'd
set a giant marble down
and it wouldn't move
a centimeter,

vast expanses of
water glistening in
sunshine, the Gulf
illuminated in all its
mystery,

and houses, newly built,
teetering over wild
grasses on wooden stilts,
prepared this time for
the perfect storm.

All these images
resonate so profoundly,
any order I had created
evaporated for this blend,
of emotions, academics,
artistry.

I feel it in my body,
my bones, my brain,
my toes--
these reverberations
resonating in an
indescribable way.

All I can say is
that I have been changed,
in a few quick glances
I don't want to leave
this place, even though it
seems so foreign to me.

I close my eyes,
trying to see if I can
untangle this mess
of thoughts and return
to where I was before,
collected, in a comfortable
equilibrium, but
I do not think I can:

though I never expected
it, this place has changed
me forever, made me
anew,

in glancing at this
stark civilization on
the edges of these states,
houses perched high
over ground to avoid
the fury of Mother Nature,

and the vast expanses
of water, reedy grasses,
and it all, this untamed
life,

I've seen how resilient
humanity is, I've seen
how boundaries are
pushed, how people
live a life so unlike my
own,

and the thirst for
exploration, reawakened,
has left me hungry:

for more of a challenge,
for sights and sounds
that I feel are beautiful,

and to write,
like I have no tomorrow.

This place,
as I drive by
in the passenger seat
of the car,
how buildings have been
left in ruins
and how I wish
to piece these fragments
back together,

flood of emotions,
of academics, artistry,

I know there are no
easy answers.