Long you’ve waited for me
to put words on paper.
white, crisp bond has stared my way,
unblinking as the sun has run its course.
The paper is stacked, neatly, on the oak,
waiting for me to spill
my very essence
onto slips of the pale sheath.
Last night, the city sounds subdued by
maddening rain on the metal roof above us,
you said my passion was dead.
Passion, perhaps. But a friendship
has taken root,
like the old oak tree which spread its branches out
and protected my childhood;
has taken flight,
like geese striving for south
in the autumn air, each contributing to the pull of the flock;
has taken hold,
like my son’s grip on my fingers
as he made his first steps.
in the pull between life and sleep,
nestled like a baby against
mother’s warm breast,
it came to me:
while passion slumbers bear-like in the dark recesses,
our friendship floats like a hot air balloon,
quiet, drifting with the currents of wind,
full and ripe,
a journey to places unknown.
Copyright 2002 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.