We met in days of graying gold
When dust should rise and dust should fall
And some fair mortal hope scampered bird-like along a road,
Borne on weighted winds no one could hold.
Years later we would find
At every twisting of the path
A certain comradery in the faded kind
Of broken wings too proud for wrath.
And though we had no coin to share
And too long, each, in winter fear expend
With horizon clear and air set upon a prayer
We shall yet know ourselves to be worthy of a friend.
* Footnote: The words are there, the path is set before me–I would not say this is a final piece as yet, but a work in the right direction. I welcome any commentary you may have upon it, for it came plucked unbidden from my thoughts just this morning, and shall yet by evening’s light be honed, I think.