The Gift

You strode in,
        self-possessed,
        surprised
me daily with your persistence,
                                     sowing
                                     seeds of patience
                                                        in this bucolic land
where I had
set up camp,
              my nomadic
heart meaning only
       to repose a while.

You, like you
were born here, knew
the paths -the way
through grassy dells,
                 and wooded vale.

You took
my hand
        and led me
when the
sun would set, navigating
shadows nimbly with map of grace.

My fear kept me trailing ever behind,
                                     groaning over distance,
                                     grumbling with
each step
while you
        simply hummed happy
and pushed
on,
half pulling me alongside
rilling streams and up the rocky
                                             crags.

When did I yield?
Realize this was now my home?
Maybe,
when, at last, one midnight journey, I buckled, fell
                  sobbing to my knees, fatigued.
Gently,
         you took my
face
in hands so
                    strong,
kept your steady gaze for
what seemed years,
until the tears
                    stopped and dried.
                               Dumbfounded by
                                                          this
                                                                sheer kindness, I rested
                                                                  halfway between that pasture where
                                                                             you had found me and the hilltop destination where
                                                                                                         each morning pink would break and you would
spread your arms out,
  palms held open,
proudly show me valley below,
                                     as if this moment was brand new.
                                                                   We would
then descend,
aurora's colored clouds
              completely lost on
                  me and, too, the height, the why
of this recurrent
                               tour,
the
space beneath
                   the peak and the return by stars.
But that
night you touched my face,
and
  I slept,
  I had visions of yours
                   and then knew
I had seen it before.
         So, as the moon hung low
              and shining, I woke revived,
              anticipating
               arrival and
with purpose,
tried
    to match your stride.

This time,
atop the hill, the lights mixing, creating prismatic display of dale,
                I understood.

We held
       hands
and looked up at the
great sun rising,
flooding the sky in fire,
and in that instant,
I knew
                                                                                                        what I had missed each time before.
The grain
stood out
with dignity,
waving,
so far down, glowing now golden
                                  where before, it had seemed drab
                                                              and merely brown,
the meadow,
      malachite and now flowering with promise,
the small rivers, coursed with force.

I realized it was all yours
                           and you were giving it to
me.
The evening excursions the necessary means by which to grant this
                                                                                                    gift,
for now I saw the others.
            Waiting.
                  I,
now,
     would guide.

The Sunday Whirl