Sunday, January 2, 2011

To Faith

You and I are old soldiers,
Aren’t we?
Our souls in scars, our hands all chapped and sore.
But aware of each other’s stolid presence,
In night’s delirium and in day’s commotion:
Peaceful at memory’s cross roads.
Sometimes, like a windblown maple leaf in autumn.
Sometimes, like light of stars on a snowy mountain crest.
And we will on this path still continue,
With ice-axe clinging to the very verge.


Last night You wrote your sonnets in  Braille: the commas, parenthesis,  Ellipses... engraved perfectly on my skin- and I  w...