The Great White North held him
close by its side,
Starved for a mother,
the church was his bride
Returned home, parked.
Nearly inside.
Through thin-paned glass,
cracked right above.
Came the voice,
the love.
Dewdrops on its lilt—
a wanting
that left him wanting
Crushed petals
Fallen,
From she who was searching—
and restless.
But why?
He heard:
Rolling green hills
In a fruitful, foreign land
Where no foot can step
He saw:
Blossoms in winter
Barely holding onto
Inner warmth
He learned:
Nothing—
Beauty, lived
Abandoned thought
Eternity glimpsed—
Remembered not;
Afterimage embossed
On wet flint
Etchings left by rusted steel
Dare he mingle
His song with her own?
To match its tone…
uneasy peace.
So he lassoed the stars,
Pulling back only dust.
That should suffice.
This poem was written with it.
Nice one, cael! And that last line!