I write in my journals most days. I often write in a loose, prose poem format, searching for the thoughts that underlie the thoughts. I’ve written thousands of these prose poems in my journals over the years, and rarely publish them.

Last night I came across a hundred or so of these that I wrote eleven years ago. Each was associated with a painting. Now, these years later, some resonated with me in a deep way.

In my meditation/journaling I often consult guides. This poem is about one of those guides — my quiet interior, an older version of myself — whom I contact for advice and insights.