(For
Nerma)
I met a young girl
on
the road to
Santiago
de Compostela
when
the journey was nearly done.
Her load she bore lightly
as
she shortened her pace for mine.
I am
not a man,
but
when the day comes,
for
counting the memories
I
will recall her beauty.
What gift could be given
along
the way, taking each step
closer
to Santiago
The
spires there heavy with ancient meaning,
stone
angels in perpetual
supplication
and holy desire.
What could I say of life?
There
were things I could have said,
but
was I able to tell her
what
I could not tell myself?
Walking
as the dawn broke behind us
I
thought to open her eyes
to
the magpie’s call
in
the dark cathedral of the morning.
Will you be sorry at the end
for
the goal we wish for?
But
it is not the end, she said.
She
showed me the stones
that
she carried, each one
fitting
the palm of her hands.
What could I tell her?
The
vines touched with gold
with
September’s chill,
dogs
howling at our passing.
And when she was gone
with
her swift tread
my
heart ached
with
the sweetness of life.
Maybe
what I sought
had
travelled with us.
The
gift had been given.
No comments:
Post a Comment