What are we looking for?
Blood on Egyptian doorposts,

shadows cast towards the sun. Sometimes
a dog won’t stop barking,

a compass doesn’t point North anymore but
twitches and jerks its arrow to some other
unknown magnetic source.

Or it could be the way your shoes fall
when you kick them off this evening,
soap suds making shapes in the sink,

a stain that keeps coming back.
The telltale flicker in someone’s eyes often says it all,
especially when something’s changed, or missing,

or when something’s there
that ought not to be.

You might know it in
the flutter of a heartbeat,
in the dust dances of a sunbeam or spread out
in entrails over the rim of a cauldron;

the stirring of something in your soul that
never before drew breath, that wakens and
uncurls, surfaces and says to you:
it is time.