These sacred scars I bear are
not self-inflicted, but life induced.
I stand indicted
of others’ crimes
and cannot answer
for what’s not mine.
What I do
is cry in the dark
and bear witness
to the empty room,
the barren sky,
the callous cosmos,
that I bleed as
an innocent man.
Time passes, and seasons change.
I’ve walked this road with others who have
now departed, some not of their will, some not
of their power, but all the same,
It’ s lonelier now, yet no less lovely than
it’s always been.
It’s just that the silences grow deeper
toward the end.
Thoughts grow louder, and
small victories are
celebrated quietly in the heart
with whispered exclamations.
I feel gentle fingertips of a chilling herald wind
brush my cheek, and
smile at the inevitable winter.
And here in the cider- scented,
these vibrant colors
of my later years,
glorious before the blackened white
of my return home,
spring yet remains.