A Wounded Path

          


     We walked in green woods that morning, hands clasped.
        Silence wrapped like a silk tight cocoon around us,
           between us, in places we once knew intimately.


               Worlds apart, still so quiet,
                    we walked together through tall forest fences.
               I felt your warmth cover me in soft morning fog,     
               and I could not bear to hear myself speak your name.


     We walked along the shoreline that day, dreams fading.
        The sea swallowed my cries and spit them from gulls‘ mouths,
           like accusing shards of screams in the face of an ice wind.


               Worlds apart, still so quiet,
                    we walked together into your tall granite fences.
               I spread my warmth to cover you in soft grey mist,
               and I could not bear to hear you speak my name.


     The first night we walked apart, I knew you in an unplanned dream.
        You lifted your head to look towards the sea, and you smiled.
           I ran into my woods and listened for your warmth in winds.


               A world away, still so quiet,
                    you walk a separate path, free of my broken stumbles.
               When we speak, we are awkward aware of differences, 
               and I still cannot bear to hear myself remember our name.



               Shirley Alexander
                    © 2009