Sustenance

How fine is this sense,
so like the lingering melt
of mother's wet breast
to the babe's curled tongue...
A bathing, delicious
and so tender,
you are...

played against light,
an unmade morning scroll -
Soft, the sighs of delight
where winter's trials
now fade...
Leaving their
not quite indelible score
inscribed-
incised-
like cuneiform
on pristine skin.
The blessing of memory,
the truant call recovered,
unrequited never again...

Knowing I've stepped-
must step - unknown
into that singular heart
of empty night
with none but the cries
of beasts that wailed,
leaving none but the trail
of pretenses shed
like garments
clung to for shelter.

And I am renewed
for each echo heard
on this road to love...
though I knew it not.
better, for every thorn
that drew and spilled blood
on parchment, taut-
Its constant reminder
of past olive groves,
sage-tinged hill
and pomegranate wine
that sate the drought
of too much thought.

That stained your smile,
broke open wide
against a selfless fate.
That cradled still
the wrench of loss-
The mortal wound,
a slumbering waif...
whose song of songs
clung to a past of fine dust
and a palace of ashes,
yet somehow lingers
here now, closer still-
A bathing you proffer
delicious
and so tender,
you are found...