To find myself in the Cincinnati
airport with a ticket bearing my name
to a destination near the Red Sea
was nearly as strange as the last refrain
from the King of Azimuth, soothing realm
of the spheric arc. You have been trained,
and now you must return to take the helm
of your own destiny; the path is cleared,
while much has changed, you won’t be overwhelmed.
Landing in the city state there appeared
a limo driver holding up my name.
He drove with avid concentration, steered
us to the seaport where a crowd the same
as the old market with the eyeballs milled,
but now they waited quiet. Why they came
was obvious. The Red Sea waves had stilled,
were parting right and left, excessive male
to one side while ditzy femme upheld
the other; yang and yin had carved a trail
magnetically repelling to invite
a middle way for mankind to avail.
But no one in the waiting crowd knew quite
what they should do. The blue-eyed driver smiled
and walked me to the shore. The time is right.
We strode with ease, the sea floor Heaven-tiled.
© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image: Parting of the Red Sea by Gustave Dore