My Voice
For a friend
I saw you in the mist,
a bereaved son, climbing a mountain,
watching a mountain,
crumble behind him.
And I know you again.
A parallel path lays uncemented,
thick ahead of us.
A solitary journey,
baring no signs or solid direction
spreads itself across our tomorrows.
Reluctantly, we both walk it.
I knew you once
blue eyes steeled,
ready, haunted.
I see you now too and imagine
I could comfort you.
Although, I know you find comfort elsewhere.
I long to give a warm voice, soft touch,
healing words.
My muse left. She gasped a few times,
breathed ragged breath
and begged my attention.
When I ignored her, she closed her eyes
and softly flew away.
Your muse is flourishing.
Solemn and stoic he paints
you with a perfect stroke.
Because you've nurtured him,
with gentle nature and reckless spirit,
you've perfected him.
You honor him. He honors you.
I'd like to believe we are kindred,
sharing some great passion for landscape
and changing scenery. Equipped with similiar history.
I'd like to believe it was
your marble creek running through my childhood .
Have you ever noticed
skipping stones
seem almost polished
when pulled
fresh from water?
Or that sighs are loudest
when sighed across hundreds of miles?
Mary
a bereaved son, climbing a mountain,
watching a mountain,
crumble behind him.
And I know you again.
A parallel path lays uncemented,
thick ahead of us.
A solitary journey,
baring no signs or solid direction
spreads itself across our tomorrows.
Reluctantly, we both walk it.
I knew you once
blue eyes steeled,
ready, haunted.
I see you now too and imagine
I could comfort you.
Although, I know you find comfort elsewhere.
I long to give a warm voice, soft touch,
healing words.
My muse left. She gasped a few times,
breathed ragged breath
and begged my attention.
When I ignored her, she closed her eyes
and softly flew away.
Your muse is flourishing.
Solemn and stoic he paints
you with a perfect stroke.
Because you've nurtured him,
with gentle nature and reckless spirit,
you've perfected him.
You honor him. He honors you.
I'd like to believe we are kindred,
sharing some great passion for landscape
and changing scenery. Equipped with similiar history.
I'd like to believe it was
your marble creek running through my childhood .
Have you ever noticed
skipping stones
seem almost polished
when pulled
fresh from water?
Or that sighs are loudest
when sighed across hundreds of miles?
Mary
Comment On This Poem ---
For a friend
For a friend
