Yes, I know I promised the next part of this series was going to be about how I understand intimacy, but a bit of something happened last night to cause me to get this out first. Please pardon the interruption and the detour. And please excuse the coltish awkwardness to follow; I’m terribly out of practice at writing any sort of poetry.
He walked the graveled path on bare feet,
Pain impaled the body and mind
Alone and lost in winter’s freeze.
He stopped, howled his anguish and
Tried to soothe the temporary ache
With fleeting relief to the wounds that quickly fell away.
He found, discarded but fair cloth to bind his feet.
And the walk became less strained…
And the path began to yield its light.
A willow’s feathers brushed the ground,
Offering a tender invitation to rest a while.
Pleasant and soothing, but only for a moment
Before offering protection for the continuing journey.
Though the path remained loose and rocky
The stones grew smaller and less threatening,
Further separated from his self
By the gift of the willow’s boughs wrapped tightly ’round his feet.
Color peeked from the undergrowth
As flowers peered their frilly faces upward in encouragement to continue his search.
Taller and brighter grew the petals and
Then, in the garden of the home he left a lifetime ago,
The sweet scent of a flower emerged from a tangle of thorns.
Recognized yet unknown in youth.
Confidently, he pruned away the sharp distractions to exposed the red heart of a rose.
Small. Soft. Delicate yet sturdy on its own straight spine of scattered minute thorns.
He drew his breath at the find,
Cupped the bloom to his face in hands folded as if in prayer.
Closed his eyes to bend and drink her scent.
He took nothing from the rose, yet gave her nourishment.
Her spikes lost their threatening stance and
She enveloped him in her beauty and invisible gifts,
While she grew stronger and brighter.
For he was home,
And she, tended.