The ancient, herb fragrant hills
have heard my voice calling your name,
calling for the feast of life
where our springtime joy
might live without it shadows
of winter mustiness and murk.
Your face shows a thousand shifting feelings;
your eyes mirror gray hills of sage.
You were a slow flame surrounded by an azure sea.
The roses you once held to your breast for strength
became my kisses, ruby raindrops in spider webs,
the lips of infants.
I watched roses fall from the cart
that creaked over wet stones,
carrying you back to the clay.
Rose petals slipped into black pools
where the sky poured its grief.
We may ask if love is worth it: the white-haired sadness,
the hollow cistern of the heart,
where echoed voices are muffled in the dark?
*
But you inside me, there in the midst of my pain,
your face, shining like a candle in my mind,
is the greatest treasure I own.
Poem © Blake Steele 1993
Photo © Blake Steele 2004
Photo © Blake Steele 2004