Perhaps to rediscover the bedrock
of all happiness, she crouches
in the creek’s whispering path
where rocks are made of death and life,
and water becomes liquid light.
Above, forest canopy and fleet things hover
as if to pluck out, lift this small woman,
her blood laden with cellular grief,
mind a circumnavigation of hope,
bones compacted with weariness.
Late day gold floats, settles on her skin,
explodes in the air and inside her eyes,
flings her far beyond herself,
startles tears caught in her throat that
sound like the cry of an angel or animal,
that singular voice of life as it emerges
from darker places that would steal us all
if we relented, forgetting the majesty
of it, the Love that calls and recreates us
but we do not forget, we cannot forget,
immortal and mortal, each tethered
to one and another here and there.
And the woman finds power, stands, steps away.
2 thoughts on “Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: For Those Who Think They are Lost but are Only Weary”
A beautiful poetic tale topped and tailed by excellent photographs
So glad you liked this, and thank you for saying so, Derrick.