Balm of Gilead

There is none
but the scorching day
and how far the roots run:
nettle-pricked-thumb

the clouds coming this way -
grass needing cut again -
the birds woo and chatter
and lose their young
on pavements

somewhere the eagle soars
in the place the eye can't see
my heart of lion
roars
although silence surrounds me
in the place where the sorrows pour

but today, is a day of scorching
skin, good breath outside,
and does hope ever die
if I always think I can win
and all the sores
heal one day

in a place where
I can be glad:
my balm of Gilead drunk
from the trees and the
birds, the red squirrels with flaxen tails, the
woodpeckers, and the try
of bend and stretch
holding nature at bay -

the psalm in my heart
prays
she can hear me from here
and all the days I didn't have
and all we never said

the sad regret of my face
but when I look down
I can see her hands and
	her wrists:  life
that business of risk with
no reward of guarantee
but the tread and the 
best-use-case, the best
plumb-line one can muster
with lodestone
and goldseam

all the young punks out there
having a whale of a time
dying to get drunk -

in the days where I have
slowly walked from
A to B, pack hoisted,
stick in hand, dowsing the
road before and shaking
the dust off my feet of
the frowning faces behind:

so much criticism:
they could never be pure.

The silent song of forever,
fever-endured,
in my heart, as the
part played gave only
some reward.

What do I go toward today
	I ask
as the grass above her is quiet,
well-tended, and the trees
sway.  Out over the loch
there is a cool breeze
	coming my way.

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