Saturday, January 2, 2010

the wanderer.

Two went out, to find
a field. Rough it ought to be,
with brambles, tangled weeds,
and rocks of a perfect size
to protect their endeavour.

Eager expectation
greets the great undoing.
Fierce, renewing,
sun on his back—
he who sifts through rubble.
He who imagines his hands
like a carver of stone,
and surrenders to fire.

Hours glide softly
over earth, with such simplicity.
Listen! From your
humble heart ring
rhythms, blessed fealty.
Tired with age, the joy
of gold at dawn,
for those who watch.
Softly ringing,
May the earth
break always heavily

I have songs as well,
but they are different.
We still seek for fields, yet softer;
we are freer. Oft-times we have wandered,
slumbered, ‘til the evenings fell
and bled together.

Still, the emptiness. Please,
take this away from me—
all these barren words,
like plunging oceans, knotted vines

Bare feet stung
and scratched, from
wildness, endless treading
here. Heat from which I hide.
Thoughts that break against
the stones, and I
can hardly lift them
after all this time;

one anointed whisper
falls, unfailing.
Catches my ear,

Wander here with me, on
unfamiliar shoulders.

Hold the life of buried hearts. Wander
here, with me.

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