Sometimes I feel as ancient as the dirt.
Not old,
but ancient,
dusty like a worn museum desk,
piled high with artifacts and memories.

I'm not from here,
but traveled years ago,
when I was very young,
by ship across the cold Atlantic,
like some 1940's movie,
with immigrants in old New York.

I see the memories in black and white,
and I was very cute,
wrapped up in scarves,
and staring out across the sea
to a strange land
of gangsters and cowboys,
concrete and steel,
hopes and dreams.

When we arrived,
I saw her.
Standing like a goddess,
mother of the land,
guiding us in by the light of her torch.
Stern, but gentle,
protective and welcoming,
and I felt safe at journey's end.

And since that time I have not thought
of how it might have been
had I not sailed those many years ago.
My life began upon those  sea-sprayed decks,
feeling the ocean gliding by beneath my feet,
racing toward the setting sun
to face an unknown dawn.