Long and late on the purple shroud of night
my spirit moved with shadows of an oak,
then knelt beside a moon-struck shard of light
which pierced the dark of waning winter’s cloak.
Illumined by that ricocheting ray,
a stone lay leaning from the glacial flow
of ancient roots intent to weave their way
above the muted catacombs below.
Its etchings echoed of a whispered name
that crossed the lips of someone there before,
perhaps a broken kindred soul who came
to leave itself a shard at Heaven’s door.
Then bending near this habitated ground,
I felt the roots of something deep within
conjoin with oaken arms to reach around
the weeping wounded gathered once again.
Silently, on a low and level place,
a stranger prays with other souls who mourn,
and in this fertile garden of embrace
life’s sacred shoots of hope again are born.