by Gideon Burton
Sometimes –– I cannot reason how it comes
to this when all is wind within the wind,
a swirl of molding leaves as I sit dumb
inside the knotted storms of time or sin ––
and yet sometimes it comes to me, a whole
no noise dividing can undo, no crack,
no bruise, no splitting chaos to the soul ––
a something pure, no sagging split, no lack.
Is it a song? A wisp of air come clean?
My parents with their arms of peace and strength?
For no embrace could be so firm, so lean,
to have, to hold, till sleeping comes at length.
No questions will I shore against this gift
That heals me, chasms spanned to breach the rift.
Photo: flickr - Mooganic
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