[Parting]
His hand rests in mine, and in the dusk
Of passion we lay in this flowered glade, sanguine
Light mingling with our breath. Crushed petals shed their musk,
A second bottle of wine nestles forgotten
Among violets mirroring a violet sky.
Contented languor tugs my lover's gaze awry
To nuzzling slumber, substituting lullaby
For Day's chorales and covenants. And so did I.

There is gentleness here, in brigand
Flowers, artisans' roughened hands and heavy cloaks,
The comfortable village, the ashen garland
Of smoke from the smithy. An aging priest convokes
His followers, and the late meal is put away,
Feet rustle to polished pews, old ears turn halfway
The better to hear the town gossip of the day,
And their habits fed, the preacher restless, they pray.

In evening, sentries mount towers and pace
Trampled streets, polished halberds glinting brave colors
By torchlight, lamplight, lanterns, fireflies and fireplace
Casting back the darkness. Hunched in cramped desks, scholars
Squint at musty tomes, spent hands etching leaden
Vellum pages like senescent automatons.
Blindness walks among their fearful pantheon;
Scholar and soldier anxiously await the dawn.

Coming darkness brings its certain chill
And the sheet we lie upon is scant protection
Against night's algid disaffections. The shrill bell,
Ill-rung by clenched hands, provides barren direction
To shelter and walls and warmth against fearful night.
The gates will close, soon; too well the guards know the plight
Of laggards racing too late to escape their fright,
The outstretched claws, the wet shriek, and the final bite.

Wake, my love. Too long we have slumbered in moonlit
Rags, clutching desperate and shamed to our secrets.
These dark woods constrain a beauty of such merit
That any painter would beg to trace your sunlit
Skin upon their canvas, while I, dazzled, submit
To adoration. Rouse from this counterfeit
Languor. You live. You deserve light. Let us meet it.

Come with me. On my knees and weeping,
Come with me. Joyous and unconfined,
Come with me. Dancing, breathless, leaping,
Come with me. Cast doubt aside. Faith need not be blind.
We needn't shiver in tomorrow's shadows.
This umbral haven is false repose,
A tumbler's threadbare net o'erstrung the dread abyss
Awaiting misstep. Frolics at the precipice
Have certain end. Come with me! There is Light enough
For your artisan's practiced hands, however rough.
Dawn will limn my unworthy page and impart
True purpose to my purposeless, rugged art.

Please, my love. Do not rebuke my hand.
Twilight offers frigid embrace. Stand
And join my pilgrimage. Light and Fire
Beckon from the coast, and They require
Neither fear nor nescience. Heed Their call
Lest all we love by darkness be enthralled.


Penned by my hand on the 25th of Mayan, in the year 792 AF.

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