The Promise (Poem)

The morning was clouded, a mist in a silver story,
The kind in which sleepy eyes water,
Rain’s imprint gleaming on the concrete,
Cold concrete, so cold,
When I raised my head from my fetal position
In my too-thin jacket
And watched as you narrowed your focus
And knelt next to me in graceful motion

Your hand found my shoulder, sky-listener.
Your impossibly colored eyes asked a question I could not answer,
And yet I tried.
I tried.
I’m trying. Still.

When you swept me up and carried me, as a centuries-old heirloom,
To the heights of a distant mountain,
The sun beginning to show in a muted mural of orange and pink in the sky,
You set me down on feet suddenly solid, or always solid,
And whispered that everything I could catch within the shadow of my gaze,
I could have.

And I swore I was dreaming, and I probably was,
But what is a dream but a jaded puzzle piece,
More fragile than the others,
But no less strong?
Dreams are as vivid to me as a sunbeam through the window,
A scorch on the tongue,
A haunting song I’ve always known though it stays unplayed
As real as your world-wielding hand on my trembling shoulder.

-D.

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