Directions Poem by David Nelson Bradsher

Most of the time I manage to ignore
my little doubts inside, and listen to
the roll/crash/hiss of waves that split the shore,
before they blend as if a salty stew
that I ingest, inhaling with my mind,
my heart too full to take its wisdom in;
and I remember hearing, “Love is blind, ”
and then I think, “My God, I’m blind again.”

But sight is overrated when our pace
is like the long, slow oceanic songs,
reaching their last crescendos in a place
that a completed wave would want to go—
a place of purpose, where the end belongs—
without directions. Yes, the waves just know.