It seems easier to resign myself
to it, now that the tale is told
and done.
And the burden of the old songs,
grows louder, and louder still.
I stretched to pluck a winter thorn,
a little flesh and blood indeed.
You took my hand, softly wiping
out the pangs of pain.
Make sweet smiling lips you said,
little strips of love in winter daylight.
It was shimmering in this little moment, so full of joy and pain.
A Wandering Poet 