A white stone tumbles slowly
Along a deserted beachside
While a fair mist takes flight in the distance,
Carrying with it spirited melodies
And conversations that drew circles
On walls eroded by legions of
Chapped hands grasping at
A frayed baton perpetually in retreat.
Here, a star is planted on fertile ground
And watered with the blood
Of youthful impetus and memories of home
Become remote as the gentle crow
Perched atop a lonely buoy
Prostrate in eternal supplication.
It shrieks in tune to a mother’s last kiss
And remembers all the lullabies not sung
But not yet forgotten,
Or all the blemished letters
Jumbled in safekeeping,
Including the one with the words “home soon”
On the bottom,
Readable to only the most restive eyes.
A name emerges indistinctly
On an edifice of wandering souls
Awaiting muster’s call.
What life does it embody,
Save a faceless history
Of unanswered calls for a
Surrender of bad faith
To conscience and humanity?
Where does each point of this star meet
In a unity of final purpose,
Where the shore engulfs the last stone
And retreats to a place where Glory
Disrobes her dubious sateen cloth?
Where a comrade is here to greet
A fellow survivor for the last time,
Before one of them enters the depths
Of remembered feats
Relegated to motionless distances?
The souls have gathered up
And they spring forth as the
Children they had begun to love
And continue to, stronger still.
Look at these hands,
And count the scars,
But also count the impressions
Of multifarious seeds that blossom
In remembrance of these walls,
These dedicated parchments
Fortified by the chapped skin
Of hands that dared not cease
Art: “Wreath Out to Sea”