Tigs Huertas

The Call, The Answer

I, the magnet
plummeting headlong,
medium fast,
attracting curious metals.
Logical ways
I've yet to fathom.
Calling silent, unknowing.
Subconsciously aware.

Who is drawn forth?

Travellers, strangers;
people from afar,
their deepest roots
delved ever-longĀ 
fed and grown in
Distant soil.
As if this note aloneĀ 
becomes the safety chord,
the mercy word.
Their displaced presence
proof of ever-rolling transience.

Moving, as we both are
makes no need
of promises,
moss or earth.