Home Pentimento Lament About Rod Contact

Clotho spun, Lachesis measured, Atropos cut

the cord, and the baby screamed as if he knew

he would not meet his mother, rest her soul.

O, love is a heavy cross.  But I took him as his father,

turned what remained of my love to him and cared

for him from babe to boy, a very strange, enchanted boy

around whom birds flew intricate swirls and perched

along his outspread arms.  He seemed the kin

of all creation and walked the earth on the lightest foot.  

He was an indigo child, born to greatness, I was sure,  

though he had way of smiling, as if a little sad, as if he bore

your sorrows, too (all else that he could ever do

was sympathize, he said he knew).  


People were drawn to him; he shored them up

and broke their sorrows' solitude.  He said it was his gift.  

But compassion is the heaviest weight.  And weigh him

down it did, far beyond his promise kept, far past

his spirit's 21 grams.  Yet, he would persist and taught

the people still, "The greatest thing you'll ever learn

is just to love and be loved in return."  "That's what

it's all about," he said to me.  How to change

his course I'll never know.  I only knew that every soul

would bow him down a little more.  I could only watch

as he fell beneath his wisdom, so alone.


One frigid day, the kind of day when through a window pane

the sun will use an icicle to throw a rainbow across a wall,

a bridge from all these walls have known to the rumour

of another place you'd rather be.  I turned from wall to window.  

In the field beyond the house he stood as tall as oak trees,

framed in glittering diamond dust.  A little shy, and sad of eye,

he smiled that smile and waved, then dropped his head

and spread his arms like wings and rose into the vacant sky,

fading into the heavens like love's lost memory.  Gone

these many years.  Perhaps he cast the weight

                         of sympathy

                         into the winter's depths

                         to return, somehow, to what,

                         to whom?  Again, I'll never know.  

                         "But you?" you ask.  Me?  

                         His sole apostle,

                         I read, much of the night,

                         and wonder if he met his mother.


32





37


39


41





45

46

47


49


51




55







61

62










72

Page 2

Page 4