Friday, April 24, 2015

the visitor

If she were here—

she whose words
plucked worms
from the ground of Being,
quick and sure—

and if I could but marvel
at how so delicate a life
could be so strong,
a life whose spirit
cuts and rides the wind
cold as metal,
a life alit on the edge
of hard earth and luminous sky
whose mouth opens
to soften Nature’s lips with a kiss—

if she were here
and I could marvel,
I would like to be the branch
poised, ready,
glad of her rest
on my cracked skin,
however fleeting the moment flies.

If I had a voice,
I would call to her.
Now she comes
as I stand in silence.
Hold still, soul,
for beauty’s brief visitation.




The Visitor
by Troy Cady







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