poetry

wheresoever

Lonesome winter, she leaves us now, love– not banished, tho departed– left to find that which’d been whispered, those frozen-breath promises, those crystal-glow wishes, found drifting upon her own bitter gales– fled this white stillness, of her chilled and obstinate pith– only a pale-gown memory persists, fluttering, within slow-spinning shadows of these taller-days’ warming, her rattling shackles fallen still, broken-open, as she’s wearied of her shivering hostility, remembered, learned again– she’d silken wings.

Aye, Spring– shall we, once and forever, be– forgiven our humanness?

I’d a memory of beige and lavender’s gentle sway, tho I’d not been certain we’d, together, seen this place, nor even I, alone. Still, your grace’d been known, this– your presence, a warm haunting, a lovely nurturance feeding my sunken-skin impoverishment. Gulping swallows of you– I’d tasted, again, bathing my lips with your sustenance, this needed love, gifted only to one– a sturdy home– twice, and without rescindment, offered to a tattered-sleeve vagabond soul, wheresoever its blown drift might wander, wheresoever Spring’s amber aerials might scatter– this dusty spirit’s ashes of compassion, be I laid amid sun-painted white-flower clover, or carried by evening’s legions of whispers to their dark-parlor wildernesses, find me; as I am only love, given, in this moment– tho thrown by wind’s whimsy. Gather me, as my falling empathy lights upon linen skin. Gather me, love, that I’d be again– whole.

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Eric

I've come to write.

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