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On weariness and readiness May 22, 2010

Posted by WillardWhyte in Musings, Poetry.
Tags: , ,
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Beneath this sliver silver moon

I cease my climb through time for you,

in a glade of shimmer

and solace earned

in leagues of tireless steps immune

to leaves that ever whine

their horrid whispered doubt

and arms

of gropy brush that bind to hold

away from gracious calm

you vowed

so long ago whence first we met

in waking blush of wispy knowing

you moved the air.

A soul

of me

for me

there for finding

and off I set til the way came here

to a field of gentle bluegrass beckoning

in easy flow of coming June,

enough to push me ever back

til I can bend no more and face

a track of starry awe that melts me down

first

to knees and then

afloat in a thousand arms sprung of proper seed in perfect loam.

In ease I am doomed

even as scent awakens every cell in memory’s store

to yelp

in feary panic

to beg a rally as not to miss

the prize

—  alas.

I’m smothered here by woody whisper

I’ve known too well:

“It cannot be,

no never.

Not for thee.”

I sense your linger

as you cock your eye to wonder,

your breath to utter:

“Now.”

“I am here.”

“The path awaits.”

I ache to scurry past

the whispers gathered now to din

but crave a gentle hand

tracing slow across my cheek

a digit paused on lips

with smiling joy my faith can vet.

A shard of time we’re owed is all the fare

you need expend,

a closing inch the final league to know

alone.

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