Well then -- something different

BLANKET

Perhaps I came early,
but I know never late.
I spent a day or two
or maybe more --
can there be less?

He came from the forest, as I knew he should
and followed a path never defined or set,
but so sure and pure that the grass did part
before the fondling spirit of evening dew.

He wore the plain blanket like a cloak of morn
that he twirled out to a chance settled dream.
Its colors and patterns befuddled the eye,
but its soft song stung my old yearning soul.

Holes and loose threads and fain payers undone,
but spun in a web of forebound eternity.
He sat there sure, so alone on the space defined
by a breath of a shroud from city Ur and now.

It began to rain, a gift to parched ever earth,
in a torrent that drove fear from hiding eyes.
Yet not a drop hit that spread of virgin wool
though the flowers sang and the parched grass unbound.

His hands were splay open in forgiving praise,
and his untold pain forgotten in joyful song,
and I was but driven to my trembling knees
to be so cleaved to the bare threads of time.

For it was his tears
that tumbled there.
that my soul rejoice
in being quenched
and life reborn.

faucon