They met at the cliff’s edge

Where she was still frozen

On a ledge just below the rim.

She had arrived there, breathless,

From a tortuous climb out of the terror below

With only the strength to stand leaning

Into the cliff wall waiting for the courage

To take that one last step into the future above.

 

He sat down, dangling his legs

Into the open air of the chasm.

Had he come to end her loneliness

To provide the support

For that last surge up over the rim?

 

For a while it seemed so.

He did not rush her,

Simply kept her company

Cheering her with his humor

And friendship.

Then when she was almost ready

To take the chance, trust him

To be there to catch her

As she made the frightening leap

Into the openness above the cliff edge,

He looked down.

 

His eyes in that downward glance

Revealed his hunger to know,

To battle the beasts in the darkness below.

He was there to make the journey down.

He hoped she would go with him

As she had been there and survived.

 

But she dared not return to the depths.

She might not return a second time.

This he could not see

Through his own desperate need and pain.

 

There they said their goodbye.

She turned away toward the future

Waiting above the cliff edge.

 

He stepped down to the ledge

She had just left, turning

To let her know

He would never forgive her

For leaving him to face it alone.

Who knows
what scars
the heart
of a man?

Scars deep
beyond forgetting
beyond hope
of disguise.

What cure
is there
for the wound
that ever bleeds?

What help
for the child
spitted
on the spear
of his fate?

 

*Charles Dickens

 

 

No poetry, not today,

But a pen to dance?

To twirl and prance

Spinning into arabesque

And pirouette

Gliding over the tracery

The delicate filigree

The perfectly tatted lace

A net to catch and hold

To shape and mold

The sound and sense

That is the essence of poetry?

Ah, no. Not today,

Not yesterday,

Nor even perhaps tomorrow.

You loved me.

Your anger wrapped me

In a softness, the delicate warmth

Of the receiving blanket

Comforting a newborn infant.

You loved me.

Fear for me birthed your fire.

I stood in your anger and

I was not afraid.

I sit with doors and windows open wide

And the world passes through my home

On the way to somewhere else.

 

Behind they leave bits of themselves,

Or the sloughed off remnants

Of where they’ve traveled:

Wet footprints, dried leaves,

Sand and new mown grass,

The soft warmth of summer breezes,

The salty embers of blood and of tears,

A photograph, a scrap of cloth—

Echoes of the sound of their brief time

Within this awaiting space.

 

Hardly anyone of the passing throng

Returns to repair the damage

Left by the turbulence of their invading

And abandoning this place.

Seldom does anyone stop awhile

To share with me

The disquiet of my hours.

Rare, indeed, the one who asks to see beyond

The closed doors within, to glimpse

The secreted thoughts held apart, unseen,

Undreamed of by the crowd passing through.

 

I sit in this place

With doors and windows open wide,

Unable to shut outside

What I have yet to know

And wish I could not see,

Awaiting the moments

When the seeing is sweet

And the feeling is warm,

When the heart is quiet

And the knowing is peace.