Nearing the end of a winding road,
Wizened eyes trace the infinite
Arc of the horizon.
Out, out, out…
There, far across a veridian sea –
Infinite fields pocked with islands of trees –
The evening sun sows its endless
Garden of persimmon and lavender.
This light, this breath
And all that came along with them;
These, but dimestore tokens;
Of faraway places
A soul once knew too well.
It is only in passing
That one might survive
Such a wonderful, terrible place;
For surely if he stayed too long,
He would go blind to all its splendor.
One last, longing look, then
Gnarled hands grip tightly into fists
As a withered voice cries out,
“Great slumber, cast open your doors!”
A traveler seeks refuge.
(copyright © 2008, christian fauchald)