Mourner

I love how you push aside the light's invasion,
Climbing the bunker and lifting my heavy legs
Up and over the edge of the universe.

You with your clipped wings trying to move,
Dizzy as a newborn shadow, this is how you
Arrive, a thousand unfinished threads unraveling.

You, with the scent of fresh bread and cinnamon,
Wave me in from the lash of the ocean. Have
You really arrived, mourner, mystic, throwing

Off night's stone cloak? You're wearing your mask
With the face of a red-tailed hawk. I feel your
Lean mind cast its spell over my wilderness,

Your fingers reach out and erase my fingertips.
Swiftly we throw off night's cobwebs as the long cold
November season slips into the passing river.

Can I hear what you're whispering as you lean close,
So there can be no mistake, the promise beginning
Like the moan of the wind, the moving water?

Copyright © 2005 Geraldine Connolly All rights reserved
from Chautauqua Literary Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission