Long interred in Adam’s bitter soot,
till worms crept
through softest skin,
(with leviathan’s slinking craft)
swallowing soul’s coverlet and boring through
sinews of hope,
I wallowed
in listed remembrance--
already drowned, yet still gulping sludge,
no dreams of light
but only plans to construct
pretty mud houses in stately, mud towns.
And suddenly, while mire still crusted
upon hollow, dark eyes,
a strangely marked hand dipped deep
into that grave, swiftly
lifting
my empty frame
placing me hard, just within a mountain’s cleft,
beneath the fall of crisp, clear waters.
At first the rushing stung my flesh
until the dredge fell off in clumps
into the moving flow. Its crystal essence,
as salve of soothing,
filled each emptied crevice,
renewing glint of day to eyes,
restoring fissured soul with joy.
I often retreat to that fair fountain
and let those waters touch, then rush over
me, through me
. . . to keep from counting dust.
And sometimes when the sun is highest,
and shines just right
against that smooth stone’s pure surface,
I catch a glimpse, there reflected,
of an image
I can scarcely call
my own.
Bronze trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Love, C
