Who’s Calling Me?
by Felicia Hart
There are echoes that call from a place unknown,
Where shadow and silence have overgrown.
Their voices drift like a salted breeze,
A prayer that moves with the pull of seas.
They speak in tones the soul can hear,
Not in volume, but in fear.
Each word, a ripple in memory's wake,
A riddle the stars refuse to break.
I cannot see, yet still they plead,
A haunting hum the night will feed.
A hymn not sung but felt in skin.
A longing born from deep within.
Searching for ears that find their whispers,
Soft as ghosts, or holy sisters.
They do not knock, they simply be.
But oh, the ache . . . who’s calling me?
Familiar voices that need the light,
The beacon of hope shining bright.
Their pain still clings to air and stone,
They seek the path to guide them home.
The wind grows still when they arrive,
A hush that tells me I’m alive.
Not alone—but not quite free,
Tethered to what I cannot see.
I reply in the wind to “follow me”
Through hollow night and memory.
I’ll be the flame, the steady sound,
That leads them back to shallow ground.
~
I live in an old house in East Berne on a lake with my kids and two dogs. We enjoy the simple life where we tend our garden and raise our chickens.
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