I was just a boy,
back then
and my memory is
― well, it’s mortal.
And that,
is okay.
The soul is sound
and some remembrance
settles in, and
sustains the soul.
The winter skies
above
slate, still
I was
alone
and that,
was okay.
Some things
were better
when the ‘others’
weren’t around.
This, was my secret.
To love,
to worship,
to hold selfish
the castoffs
of the ‘others’.
Their work now done
the actions of sleet and snow
had passed
and left behind my,
MY
cathedrals of ice.
And I myself,
I
within the music
within the hymn
the wind’s euphonious flutes
stirring the celeste of
rimed saplings and dry grass,
above, the snare strikes
of boughs breaking and
crashing castanets of
the lacquered leaves
that defied fall
to brave the wintertide.
Maestro and minister
this mellisonant music,
this crystalline church
― was mine.
All was, and all is.
The soul kept it,
just
for
me.
Cold hands and cold feet
I paid no heed.
Because I,
I
god-walked
on ponds
on puddles
and when the wind
withered
― symphonic silence.
Only chuff of frosted breath
and shuffle of snow underfoot
made a sound.
And I,
still alone
to love,
to worship,
to hold selfish.
The soul kept it
just
for
me.
