Thursday, December 27, 2018

Abigail (Day 708)

The sparkling tea brown water slicing 

between grassy banks flows from 

my mountain to the city where you are. 

You whose letters drop like autumn leaves 

   in the spring of my life. 

You whose voice vibrates the air between us 

   when we speak late at night,

   when we whisper secrets to each other 

   that only the ether shares. 

You, whose hand, large and rough and 

   strong, feels like a home, in which 

   my own finds refuge, warmth, and peace. 

Here, I dwell in firelight and rainbows. 

There, you toil in smoke and showers of fire 

to build a world we may never know. 

But when you return, when the stiff leather 

of your boots and strong muscles of your legs 

carry you back up the broad back 

of my mountain—our mountain, then—

you will find refuge, too. 

And the clean cold water of the stream will 

wash away the years of our parting, leaving 

nothing to come between us but the wind.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

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