I felt a parting in my soul—
like a child abandoned,
barefoot and bereft,
scooped up on the wind’s waves—
a tumbleweed of insecurity,
looking for a home
Hands cupped in open prayer, cradling
the veiled figure of water through throat’s
gathering oasis in a parched soul—
Begins branching— capillaries—
tributaries— feeding, becoming
dust to clay, eventually departing
once more through skin’s doors, joining soft
edges above— only to rain down—
tears on the window
pane, holding shape via surface tension—
mesmerizing in restrained resolve,
beautiful in sighed surrender—
The rhythmic lullaby of distant shores,
even its faint echo is heard no more.
Like a child adopted, we know nothing
of our birth, a Fatherland forgotten.
What sun— what moon— what air—
shone, danced there? Did we taste
salt water on cracked lips? Did craggy
terrain refract rugged limbs? Did toil
or injustice, like a relentless wind,
ferry us from infant soil?
We are the first immigrants—
a thread in a tapestry no longer sure
of our colour, rejected—
This land has become our mother.
Traditions like a tree pruned,
must be renewed. History
has a way of making us all pay.
The bread crumbs no longer lead home.
The glowing hearth, the ancient myths,
the shared songs— consigned to fairytales’ fables.
The fortresses of culture now share
one room, standing under the vast canopy
of distant stars, grasping our small suitcases
of significance, hungry for portals of nativity
no longer open, until we peer at each other.
Like winter trees, standing in the frigid
breeze— stark, naked jagged silhouettes
against an azure sky— so am I.
Stripped of my leaves, my youth underfoot—
trampled, buried, rotting in the ground—
forsaken for a tall evergreen.
Haughty, proud, she towers above me now.
Looking down with a smug grin; thinking she’s
queen of the land, despite my circular bands.
Little do they know: trees like me never
fully die. Spring will come again— flowers
majestic will adorn me once more.
Apples will hang from my strong branches.
Fruit: pleasing to the eye and sweet to the lips.
You silently whisper my name.
From across the room, a summons
I cannot understand pulls me.
Like a butterfly caught upon
the wind, every defence I can
conjure is no match for honey
eyes. I am lost— Etiquette
demands I wrest my focus
on another, but their eyes don’t
hold me. I glance at you again.
I see you are teasing me—
undressing me. I stand before
you naked and unashamed—
In this moment, whilst everyone sleeps,
the world is an impressionist painting.
The street light illuminates the descending
snow, as it gracefully pirouettes to
the murky world below. Across the street,
the blurred gazebo shimmers like a
candelabra in the curtained night,
and the stately evergreens, freshly adorned
in innocent fur, sneak a waltz, unaware
of my revering gaze. Tomorrow,
people will tramp through the picture, clumsy
and careless, unaware they are standing
on holy ground. I turn from the frame
and thoughts begin to drift into snow stone
for a pillow, whilst I dream of angels—
ascending and descending for a mid-winter’s feast.
I felt an ethereal moment take hold.
Like a star, it travelled fast and far,
silently slipping past husk and flesh to stir
and soften soul’s pithy core.
I tried to gather it and seal it, like fireflies in a jar, but remembering manna,
that mysterious, mystical bread, I knew the
ethereal cannot be caught, cannot be held.
It must be openly embraced in the aurora of
the day when the soul is dew dropped with the
A tongue of fire, seeking a humble vessel to
light and name before swooshing onward and
igniting a holy bonfire— consuming, banishing
Hell’s gaudy blaze.