and here I am between them for an hour’s time or more.

Behind me was a city that was full of those I knew,

the city that I go to has all of those people too.

But here in this drab airport there are only some who stay—

who took the same plane I did, or were already o’erlayed.

What are we, then, to do here, while we wait for our next plane?

What shall we do to pass the time until we’re home again?

Some spend their time with all the shops that litter the airport,

and others stalk the information signs for their report.

But I saw one who took, instead of levity or stress,

the gifts inside his bag, and, with them, did the others bless.

He pulled from out his pack his souvenirs from our old home,

and showed then to the others who were sad, or were alone.

And what a blessing was he! Fearing not this hopeless place!

He could ignore discomfort and had joy upon his face!

For while the rest of us saw only cruel denial here

(and some used it for anger) he could stamp away its fear.

And what was it we saw upon his face while ours were bored?

His was the happiest—and the most easily ignored.

None but the ones in front of him realized what they had,

the lies the airport taught them were but one distracting fad.

They saw, when they could see him, that same life they’d left behind—

the life they’d left the old one in the very hope to find.

That man who made the layover a blessing for his friends,

ne’er left the old home, and already to the new one lends.

Be not distracted by the shops, the advertisements here,

use what you brought from heaven to establish hope and cheer.

~~~

We shouldn’t even be discussing you.

It’s not what you’d have wanted us to do.

Not how you wrote. Not knowing what you knew—

not knowing all the things that you went through.

How soon we miss the mark on all these things.

Each case like yours, all of our folly, brings.

How vain our gossips and our envyings

on even one who made your offerings.

And what, indeed, are we to learn from you?

What should we do, seeing what you would do?

What should we know, now knowing what you knew—

now knowing all the things that you went through?

You wrote of Christ, and of his endless grace.

How does he see the judgment on our face?

you LOVE to see the bear there. That is clear.

But, tell me, if his care were up to you,

how soon the signs of neglect would appear?

You have no skills for caring for the bear,

and would you blame him if he swiped at you?

Even if he knew very well your care,

would you hate him if e’er he, hungry, grew?

I’d like to think you wouldn’t. Yet I muse,

for I have seen your hate grow wild for one

who needed love when you had a short fuse,

and lost it when his need ruined your fun.

You think you love the bear, but only spied

behind the glass, well on its outer-side.

~~~

I sang it well indeed today, quite well indeed sang I,

the song you taught so well to me, the one that made you sigh,

that ever years have sung to me that I have sung right back,

to what I have so longed to see, and what I still yet lack.

I sang to no-one, though, as no-one as the way you are—

the way you leave me always, though you are not very far,

to a full hall of nothing but the echoes of the wall,

where I could hear you hearing, though you weren’t in the hall.

How hear you that song? Is that the last memory you hold,

of me, when we two studied when our hearts were not yet cold?

It is one of my best, when you last listened to that song,

that now I sing to empty halls, your ghosts the only throng.

One day someone will hear it, and the words will be for her;

but now they are for you. And for you only do they stir.

with honesty, that didn’t need to be.

Distracted by the way my real life

burst out, despite it not being asked me.

And I, a great disservice, have become

for saying what I am. How selfish, I,

for giving just a fraction of the sum

of what I feel within me by the by.

I should keep that tucked tight away, unseen,

unknown to all but me and to my God.

No man should know the places that I’ve been.

No man should see the blood-steps I have trod.

I should not have told you. Forgive me, then,

and let me go invisible again.

~~~

You’ve heard the masses say to study Bach,

but not one single book will tell you how.

You’ll be hard pressed to even find much talk

on which BWVs are “chorale”.

So since I cannot stumble on the book,

I’ll write the book myself—though layman be

my skill since the last music class I took—

it is a resource that more eyes should see.

For though indeed as layman’s are my eyes,

I have been lucky to be by a few

who could, Bach’s sweet sonatas so surmise

because they learned the hard way: through and through.

So I’ll go through and through, and find out why

they hold his music and his name so high.

away from what you’ll get. Not every time.

Sometimes, on sometimes’ circumstance; but make

the effort to allow a different rhyme.

For if someone who loves, and knows love well,

hears what their lover wants, they will not hide

from doing it as good as they can tell,

nor from their truest vulnerable side.

You’ve had it done the opposite before.

You’ve told, you’ve asked, and been put on the rack.

Forget what fools have done. Remember more

the love you wish to give, and to get back.

Love yearns to hear, and yearns to do it right.

Don’t trust those who but listened out of spite.

~~~

If I cannot bear what you give to me,

what you give me so lovingly, and free,

do not imagine that you have done wrong,

but that wrong has been done to me for long.

I do not know how to respond to this—

the tenderness of your impassioned kiss.

If I cry, please allow the tears to run

until either your lips die, or I’m done.

But don’t stop trying, not on my account,

don’t stop, for love’s assurance, your loves fount.

I am assured enough that you keep on—

this shaking frame will not soon be withdrawn.

Perhaps after I have grown used to you,

the tears will stop, and I can kiss you, too.

in hell’s own barren harrowed barrow-rack.

I’ve not the promised labor day’s due pay

for all the broken lines along my back.

You give me this?! This half a penny’s worth?

When others you gave Caesar’s own face-coin?

You give what pays for nothing in this dearth

of desperate purse that devils still purloin?

And I’m to be so satisfied? That, when

my pilgrimage through dismal fire is done,

I’ll have an all-too light purse yet again,

when worth as here’s is conquered and, yours, won?

It is enough. It—IS—enough! I know!!

Forgive me, God, for saying it’s not so.

~~~

The image is enough. More than enough.

I needn’t have it, but it’s given me.

The sweet, rapturous dreams that mornings snuff

are cruel, though they are a gift to see.

And that is how I must imagine it.

Or else, if cruel is the Maker’s art,

I must imagine that the pay will fit,

or else that it is not so sour a part.

If missing out on what I’ve seen is paid,

I can now let it rest. And if it’s not,

I may be happy, though the whole is stayed,

with even the small pleasure of the thought.

You gave imagination. Give us so,

if not its form, the grace to let it go.

So while Wyveria chased Wrenogal

(that is, while she chased Lydoria’s song),

her Durn and his good crew were pivotal

in being where good characters belong.

I say that—being one now set apart

to see the story as if from above.

The pieces you have come to know now start

to line up snug as fingers in a glove.

And first to line up so (besides the blade,

and better—for one side, at least, was good)

was one such fated meeting fitly made

on Warponde’s docks where two strategists stood.

For when Durn came up dockside, he’d confer

with who but he, the sore ill-fated Zlyr.

xlviii

They had a problem there in Warponde’s walls:
the king of Lewellen was to arrive.
Thus shipways fell to indefinite stalls,
while still the docks buzzed as bees of a hive.

No man would take them, no ship would embark,
not ere the king was coming, and not aft,
for while the ships were presently so parked,
they’d be a fortnight longer backlog trapped.

Durn skulked the pier, then, doing his best craft,
awaiting eavesdropped words that could be won,
and over seaspray did someone’s words waft:
“I must make Ostia, ere eaves the Sun.”

The boy leaped up to see who spoke the word,
and saw Lewellen’s wealed and woeful lord.

xlix

A reckless race ran through Durn’s mind just then,
when seeing such a prospect on this pier,
and he forgot how many able men
could easily remove him far from here.

“King, Wrenogal’s pursuer! I have word!
My mother knows the one you seek! And I,
bereft of her so long, cannot afford
to wonder longer if she’ll live or die!

I think she’s gone to Ostia! That’s where
you’re headed, yes?” He stood, supplicant, short
enough to hold the stature, though not wear
the posture of the supplicant’s report.

But Durn knew drawn eyes forced men to be fair,
and, sure enough, Zlyr said, “I’ll take you there.”

and said to me what you could not before,

and brought your heart to mine, where it belongs,

I’d not remember your sins anymore.

But you will hear a lie inside that word—

something I have not said you will suppose.

You will think that on all your sins I’ve pored,

when that is where my mem’ry never goes.

So don’t you ever speak of them again,

despite the recompense you’ve not yet made.

You really think that I recalled them then,

before you finally looked up and prayed?

I never dwelt on what you did to me,

but all that I have hoped that you will be.

~~~

The one bore pain, the other made it null,

but both kept pain around. What was that for?

Can pain even the powers of gods cull?

Is it that Chief of Gods is but Pain’s Sore?

But making pain as negligible makes

the problem even worse. It says that, though

one cannot take it out, the plan forsakes

experience that all the pain could show.

While that first one, who bore it, says at least

that something in it had some value yet.

Perhaps pain is not god, but is the priest

of any good that living can beget.

So bear that One who bears, beneath its rod,

the full pain of the true and living God.

Dear greatest that there ever was, tell me

how days felt, working as you always did,

while closeted away in your study,

producing perfect work, while always hid?

How did you hide thus willfully like so?

You shaded all your notice, and let speak

the work alone—’for God alone’ you sow.

The holiest work from the utmost meek.

Yet everyone who knows knows your name first:

you are primeval in memoria.

“Composed by J.S. Bach,” is first rehearsed

before your “Soli Deo Gloria”.

But is that as it should be? Jesu’s joy

itself is in rewarding such a boy.

~~~

First phrase, repeat it, then a little more,

then wrap it with a coda, short and sweet.

Plain first, that’s what development is for:

and then a simple ending makes it neat.

I think that’s what the best teachers all did,

instead of diving down the rabbit-hole.

Instead, they kept complexity well hid,

while hinting at its flavor, but not whole.

That leaves the listener allowed to learn

himself what textures that the thing has got.

Man loves a thing much more that he must earn,

at least when some is given—and some not.

You could have made it much more clear; but well,

I rather like the climb to heav’n from hell.

you needn’t feel too bad about. Take heed:

for with one lack, one constraint, too, is done,

and in racked soil is a hopeful seed.

Remember, greed is also passion. Give

its better part your strength and find your boon.

Turn also loneliness inside-out: live

its companied adventure as your tune.

So let no fear consume you! See its friend—

each horror has its counterpart beside.

Love all their good companions, let them mend

the pains you’ve had to bear alone inside.

Explore the wheat if ever you find tares:

pain always has a friend nearby who cares.

~~~

You called me, didn’t say what it was for,

and when I texted back to ask you why,

you didn’t deign to try to call once more,

nor did you give my question a reply.

You leave me now to try again come morn,

to see if morrows really do renew,

to see if answers really can be born

by bearing night, though worse-for-wear, all through.

I’ve never thought it good. Waiting all night

to know if we are still of the same heart.

To know if our two souls are still alright

deserves more than a night with us apart.

But if that’s what you need, I’ll starve as long

as it takes to right every single wrong.

I am a mirror telling you your past—

or what I think your past would think of you—

would that bright, bold, and brave child stand fast,

now that all of her high hopes you outgrew?

She wanted—what was it again? Do say:

what did that little one dream all about?

If you can tell me, I will pave your way,

but if you can’t, I’ll have to shut you out.

So take a look: see what you’ve left behind,

and tell her everything she’d want to hear:

but tell no lie, or else you may well find

your way forward or backward far from here.

She’s waiting for you now—looking right back

at what you’ve won for her, or what you lack.

Mirror of Kinship - Balthazar

I am a mirror telling you your kin,

or what I think your kin would look like now—

would they like all your dives and runnings-in?

Or would they want to have a well-earned row?

I cannot know. But look close—see and say…

what is it that your brother thinks about?

If you can tell me, I will pave your way,

but if you can’t, I’ll have to shut you out.

I wonder if he likes the looks of you,

now that you are all hooded and withdrawn.

But who am I to say? What would he do

if, not in kind, but in truth he looked on?

I may not be a mirror, but a door.

Though that’s for you to ponder and to pore..

Mirror of Identity - Val

It’s you inside this mirror! Or is it?

Take a close look—she’s perfect, isn’t she!

See how she takes on every jot and whit

of what you want to be, and not to be?

You’ll see it if you try: come now, and say

if this is what you’ve tried to bring about…

If you can tell me, I will pave your way,

but if you can’t, I’ll have to shut you out.

Ah—now you see it: is it future? Yes—

that is, if you can choose it. What if not?

This perfect version may not, I confess,

be anything your future will have got.

And can you live with it? Now, seeing so,

the you you’d give up anything to know?

Mirror of Choice - Barley/Triage

Now what to do with you? What now with two?

Do I do both at once? This is quite new…

But that’s too many people to pursue.

I’ll give the mirror’s decision to you.

So tell me, which do you see? Go on.. say,

I’d love to hear what you will bring about.

If you can tell me, I will pave your way,

but if you can’t, I’ll have to shut you out.

But be you warned: there is a price with this,

depending on your choices as of late.

The freedom of your future you may miss:

for, I’ve not said it yet, but I am fate.

But I digress. Which of you do you choose?

Which of you do you risk, perhaps, to lose?

Soil

The Wren was silent as they left the tree,

whose bloodied leaves soiled the little boat.

“There is a play on words right here,” said she

who navigated out of the lake-moat.

“See how the red leaves soil ‘neath our feet?

We are not seeing mess, but otherwise.

What is called soil to something kept neat

is rich earth to a little seed’s soft eyes.

You see it, yes?” But Wrenogal still held—

he was not sure what anything meant now,

and kept his feet from where the said leaves welled,

and looked not at Lya, but o’er the prow.

“They are like soil. Soiled, though they are,”

said he—but she: “Because of it, they are.”

xli

“I must take you somewhere that I would not,

unless it was to help you. On we go.”

But Wrenogal, looking up with some haught,

said, “hold now. There is something I must know—

you know more of me than you should. You speak,

of elements far more than man, as kin.

I cannot simply follow, kind and meek,

if I cannot tell where your soul has been.”

Lya had been about to take the reins

as she had done to get here. Now she turned,

“you know now that the world you know contains

both souls and fates that neither one has earned.

The time is short, and lessons there are great,

come: two flights more and all your wants will sate.”

xlii

She brought him to a tower deep inside

the wilderness, but near its southward edge,

built just so that it could, from keen eyes, hide

surrounded by both canopy and hedge.

Within it, from a window, they two peered

as spiders, secret, and as silent, too.

And inward were philosophers, who leered

at someone sitting on a little pew.

They asked him questions which he answered well,

until he knew no answer—then he stood

and read from books and could, the answers, tell,

and then went back to sit right where he should.

“You’re seeing new life born—or old life caged

in ways that should make anyone enraged.”

xliii

“This life will live to do one thing alone:

to tell and to be told what it should do.

But any man or woman to condone

conditions such as this is nothing new.

You’ve seen it often before. And back and forth

the collar goes, and now they think that one

can bear the leash because it’s what it’s worth,

and all the oscillation can be done.”

There was a flame within her eyes just then

that never had been witnessed there before.

So full of kind compassion—then again,

perhaps it was compassion, only more.

“But collars must be broken—leashes torn—

for anyone to tell it is the morn.”

xliv

“And what leash have you now? You wear one—yes!

It is as tight as any that I’ve seen!

You are no slave by law, but nonetheless

you bear a dog’s own collar: cruel and keen!”

The Wren stared back, his hand reached up to feel

what he knew was not there. Her zeal was bold

enough to make a metaphor so real

he thought he felt the collar: crisp and cold.

“Your world so holds you—no, not even Zlyr

can claim it. But there are those who have judged

you better. They were where the good hearts were:

the ones whose openness needed no nudge.”

More than he knew, but less than he would know,

Wrenogal saw the source of Lya’s glow.

xlv

“I do not understand this simile..

I am not bound but by my own two feet!

And even they are blessed to, skyward, be,

what with a dragon’s wings with which to beat!”

“You call my song a simile?” she said,

(who had not sung the words). “No, little wren.

You will not on my testimony tread:

I speak what I have seen, and seen again.

The soul that stands before you will not know

but this life that you see before you now.

His is mute telling only. None will go

into his heart, though they would not know how.

They keep him on his leash. Not just to tell,

but so they never have to know him well.”

xlvi

“They’ve done the same to you. You say you’re free—

that anywhere in Ralquez you may be.

But can’t you feel the confines? Can’t you see:

you are invisible to all but me.”

And Wrenogal at last had words to say

to all his sad adventure. He was not

confined at all to country, but to stay

away from any mind and any thought.

“I must not be a thorn in any side,”

he said, staring into the window, where

the Tell was in his element—his stride—

telling but what they wanted to hear there.

“This is the last leash that shall be undone,”

said Lya. “Till your many songs are one.”

if I don’t learn how to get some sleep soon

my mind will be its own many-faced foe,

as all its bindings sweat away and swoon.

But I can’t tell it what to do—I am

no master of my master. If it thinks,

I thinks, and hours pile on the dam

of respite, spilling over all its brinks.

It wakes only a few hours after rest,

and tells me to get up or else go mad;

and I can’t argue with its wishes, lest

I drain its hopes and force it to be sad.

So hide from sadness! Wake, and go insane,

pace through the night, and, optimism, feign.

~~~

We lay upon a garden of pillows,

surrounded by an angel on each side,

who tells his passers-by, “hush, dear fellows:

there are two here who quietly abide.

Theirs was a burden that they held alone,

or as alone as anyone can claim.

And now our Master has given them home

together, in this lush and meadowed plain.”

And you, who held alone your mortal life

are held by me, and hold me just the same,

while many hundred years forget the strife

that we, apart, should not have had to tame.

Until the aches that anchor in us deep

are kissed a thousand times while we both sleep.

by fairest fae or by the faintest flea,

the truest talk of any touring tongue

has been to say what is and what might be.

And anyone can say it. Any voice

can voice what is and what is not quite yet.

Even the veins of Earth’s hills have no choice

but to be what they are: what they beget.

But we are not so honest, you and I.

We may not even know what ‘is’—what ‘might’—

what has and has not flashed before our eye

we stitch to stories that might not be right.

We tell not being, not what might yet be,

and, all throughout our lives, learn how to see.

~~~

O pining, yearning, aching, longing, lost,

O dreaming, wishing, hoping, pleading, pained,

do not reduce the measure of your cost

to something that is “your fault” or guilt-stained!

O man who pines for what life will not give,

O woman yearning for what will not be,

do not forget that so it is to live,

that so is everyone’s “be living” fee.

O you forsaken wanter, want on still,

O you rejected in your longing, go:

do not convince yourself your unmet will

deserves to be less noble than you know.

Want. Want! And want as well as you can try,

and lonesome, and together, we will cry.

Noval stared into Aerandel’s flushed face,

who’d said just what he never wished to hear—

who’d rung the death knell of his latest race,

who’d said in shock what caused, in him, more fear.

The bandits had a plan for nights like this,

when sounds just as this shriek met their night guard.

They’d reach far past the sound, so not to miss

a fleeing rogue, and make his way out barred.

“This lass is one of mine! Those letters? Hers.

No man but me will touch her. Bind her fast,

and put her where she says, in her letters,

she wants to be: ‘with me, for fortnights past’”.

The keen-eyed Aerandel stared down Noval,

and clutched not her cloak, but Lineya’s shawl.

xxxvii

They brought her to Noval’s tent, pushed her in,

all laughing and surveying her with eyes

that didn’t match each one’s fake-friendly grin,

that saw no person, but an easy prize.

But prize or no, a law was still a law,

and, lawless though they were, the heart loves rule.

That is the little known, and better flaw

that cutthroats know: the heart is not a fool—

while sophistry makes fools of all. No man

can argue what he wants. High courts will call

a keen mind better, and instinct less-than:

but that is not what guided our Noval.

For when Noval at last entered his tent,

he was prepared with both tongues’ drawstrings bent.

xxxviii

They did not speak at first. Not second. Third,

at last, was when they spoke, not candidly.

The tent allowed eavesdroppers every word,

and that was not what either wished to be.

“You came from New Ridge. All the way, to tell

me that ‘the regent‘ ‘someone‘ now defames?

I knew that much already. That’s as well,

it sounds like those who knew, his sword now claims.”

But though she was still bound, and though he scoffed,

our Aerandel saw kindred in the man

who had both truth and his own country doffed

to keep the truth he knew as best he can.

“’The regent‘ was a fool to forget you.

He knew not how you’d cling to what you knew.”

xxxix

Foil

His eyes stung, hot as all the sands of Ryke,

and just as desert dry they felt to him,

and red they gleamed, both irises alike

in swimming swells of sleeplessness full-brim.

That’s how they’d stay for as long as they saw—

his murder and his schemes would bear with toil

the sight of every calculated flaw,

the capture of each perfectly placed foil.

But as the seaspray dashed upon his face,

no solace came to him. His eyes stayed dry,

as if Tolno himself took every trace

of moisture promised to the poor man’s eye.

But Zlyr had no mind to save them, so assailed.

To Warponde, then to Ostia he sailed.

that sin that tries to heed His will is not—

that that which tries to find the Lord’s own way

but by the way should not be so distraught.

But if I should seek His way, seek His thought,

and choose my own to get there, I am fooled.

I am not then by good desires taught,

but by my own ambition’s god so ruled.

See now the Lord’s great mercy: for He can,

with all such cases fight the better part.

This is the bold perfection of His plan:

He argues all the good wants of the heart.

So Jesus makes rebellion as null—

and makes misguided wants His own—and full.

~~~

No witnesses, for anything of note,

are needed. No, I need no-one to see

the times my journal already re-wrote—

I want a witness for the quiet me.

What no eye sees is what I wish was known:

that courage of a moment on my own,

that fear that almost caught me all alone,

that didn’t quite, but took a quiet groan.

And then I see what always should have been

so visible to me: those eyes are rife

in those who were before, and will again

be living, and who still await their life.

If neither lovers nor family can see

your soul, the angels still take note of thee.

“M—Master Porrick, urgent, please, look out:

the flame of Dustan stands ahead of us.

I—I cannot know how he has found our route,

but witnesses saw just how perilous

he was to an entire town! Say now

to flee! Or send a warrior to fight

him off, and let our own lives so allow

another venture under a new light!”

“What’s this that haunts me! That old wench? Go, tell

the archers to filet him ere he strikes!”

But Erison was too far to see well,

and so dodged their so crudely volleyed spikes.

And though he knew not who owned the parade,

he knew enough to make a fair fight’s trade.

xxxiii

So, satisfying vengeance woke again

within the heart of he who bore the blade

that burned more now, it seemed, even more than

when in poor Dustan it was used to raid.

What are you doing, fool? The Shadow said,

as Erison raised up the Shroud before

his face, as he ran forward into dread,

into the implied many arrows more.

“You’ll be the shield for me,” he laughed. “You’ll take

the brunt of what they throw at me, until

I’m there to puncture all the holes they’d make

in me, until they’ve had their purchased thrill!”

The Shroud spoke not to this, but seethed to see

the callousness of his insanity.

xxxiv

A flaming sword burned through a wagon’s rein,

and sent its horses running off alone,

and sent many a forged and unforged vein

into the dirt: both of man’s blood, and stone.

A cry came from its wielder’s tongue: a shriek

of something that was not what man would make.

Another cry came from a wagon—weak—

quite real, but with an innocence quite fake.

A knight looked on, and let the sequence go—

allowed the massacre before his face—

who knew what all who know true battle know:

that rage is not a manageable race.

A seraph watched, too, on all parties there;

and smiled, and he called the matter fair.

xxxv

A cold, uneasy curiosity

surrounded o’er Nevgondian. Say, ‘knight’,

what is it that you are so keen to see

in this vain man—this brash, pathetic blight?

I admit, it is entertaining now,

to see his rage consume him. How they fall.

But you chased him here. Why do you allow

his plight to be the tale on which you call?

You do not chase for vengeance. Loyalty

you’ve said is why you still do as you do.

If I told you you could be, from this, free—

would this true promise be of worth to you?

I tell you, Aerandel would know no part.

Or is that really what regales your heart?

the earth! Descends to night, invisible!

Is not! Is not unto our eyes. Unto

our eyes he is gone, irreversible.

And animals contain their course, and sleep

in peace beneath his absence. What they know

of day they have sown and they will not reap,

for into endless night they think to go.

Then wake they to the dawn, new creatures? Yes,

with memories of yesterday. The Sun

of last life is not anything the less

than what it now, so newly, has begun.

But first withdrew—descended—let us die—

into the earth—and let us live a lie.

~~~

I woke. I had my breakfast: eggs and toast,

I saw the Sun, and walked a mile out.

A mile back, and did what I loved most,

and wrote what I had seen out and about.

I took care of a thing or two at home,

made lush my living—made holy my house,

and made everything fit for all to roam,

from quickened man, to uninvited mouse.

Then to a friend wrote I. And many more

I prayed for. Their day is as good as mine.

I hope they know how much I so adore

their being in my tale. How much I pine

to know the day with them. But now I die,

as with the setting, dying Sun, I lie.

that you wrote on. You gave it a good caption.

More beautiful than I could draw made you,

with words, the scene I drew in my adaption.

But someone took it. Threw your work away.

Yes, yours, not mine, it was, though you don’t know it.

No soul was hurt for losing it that way

but mine, for with you did they also throw it.

For you left, too. You’re not here anymore.

The caption was the last way to get to you.

If you had not gone, I would not so pore

on what you wrote, that’s gone, that took me to you.

But now its ghost remembers you, and I,

the only one who still recalls your eye.

~~~

I didn’t say enough. That must be it.

I didn’t make enough of me well known

to let you question me, even a bit,

on what things I had tremulously shown.

I didn’t ask enough. That must be it.

I didn’t pry enough to show you how

I care so much to know your every whit,

but though I asked the whole time, who cares now?

I didn’t try enough. That must be it.

I didn’t do enough to make the prim

of every part of every preference fit

your heart’s own just and very human whim.

I tried to know that heart, and I learned much,

but on my heart you wouldn't look nor touch.

So Rowden asked the crowd, “where to then first?”

and all the miners looked around, and hoped

another had the better of their worst,

but all failed the ideas for which they groped.

The leader looked back down toward the boy.

“You know your mother best. Speak on, don’t stay.

We’re men of orders. Give us an employ,

don’t hold that smarmy tongue of yours at bay.”

And little Durn grinned up at the tall one.

He had only known gossip at his lips

from when his speech had very first begun;

but all that gossip had given him tips.

“If she’s in charge, she wouldn’t think of me,

but of the town—that’s where her mind will be.”

xxix

“Then what you say brings heart to all of us,

to find her without those who we stayed for

would not be worth our faithfulness nor fuss.”

He took the wagon that, their spoils, bore.

“Tell a direction, boy. Or else, Eastward

I say, to Warponde. Closest place to go.

Unless your intuition can afford

a better course—we’ll trust the things you know.”

It was a little too much faith, I think,

but Durn was their employer, after all.

Or, at least, the managerial link

between them and from where their pay would fall.

But maybe Durn hid from me the detail

of how, sometimes, the hearts of good men fail.

xxx

However their peace or their backbites went,

they chose to go to Warponde. Though Durn, too,

thought that it simply was time better spent

to go to where civilization grew.

They could not have guessed then, what had become

of those they wished to follow. That, of course,

was kept by messengers who couldn’t run

where guessing was a matter of perforce.

Wyveria, though, had a different plan,

who cleverly reviewed what had been said

by Wrenogal, before his flight began:

how North must be his road, and wild his stead.

Faith, logic, and emotion fought in her,

but none of them enough to make her sure.

xxxi

Wyveria recalled her books. The ones

Wrenogal had requested from her store.

Durn knew how to survive—more than most sons,

and this was where she was needed far more.

That would be what Lydoria would want,

she said, secluded, to herself. Apace,

“No one love should all other lovers daunt

when ministering song and minstrel’s grace.”

She was no minstrel, and song was not hers,

but scripture had song been to her ofttime.

And this is what Wrenogal so assures

in her heart: more than character, his rhyme.

I’ll follow where he went, then. If he’s there,

She must not be that far behind, somewhere.

the seed still worked—alone. Alone. Alone.

But hid behind a lightless door, the night

of man was hid behind a rough hewn stone.

Within a lush place, far from any eye,

a man prayed all alone. Alone. Alone.

But in that darkened prayer, the man could spy

all things, and still all things chose to atone.

And then the seed shot upward—bathed in Sun,

one sprout began—alone. Alone. Alone.

But tho the sprig be singular, just one,

an endless harvest of its fruit would hone.

And once raised up upon a mocking throne,

the Vine wrought fruit, and did it all alone.

~~~

To CSL and 1 Nephi 8:

Good people laughed. Even the ones who said

that none should mock, even a little, at

the failures of men. Still, they laughed instead

at what they saw, and no-one stopped, at that.

You’d think they’d realize their reaction,

and stay their weakness. But, I tell you, no—

no man could tell that he was the faction

that prayed against the poor publican so.

And he who was so scorned saw once again

the world that never wanted to embrace

him sinning, so he went it once more, then,

trusting the love of men less than sin’s grace.

And sin’s grace held him. For, within its core,

the only One who never laughed, it bore.