Long and Late

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.

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