Playing the Indian Card

Sunday, February 21, 2016

On Starting Late

Sometimes at night I listen to you breathe,
And dream of what you were at seventeen.
My foolish eye, Miranda-wide, must find
A mooncalf in the backdrop to the scene.

Not that I could love you, younger, more
Than in your majesty of adult pride;
But each day that winds from then to now,
I would be, and I was not, at your side.

Well met at last, halfway from dust to dust;
No nearer journey's start than journey's end;
Yet let us swear, as fingered nets are cast,
Our journeys shall not be alone again.

And let us swear, with failing tongues and breath,
As camels pant in weary caravan
Along the lonely silk road of the heart
Our journeys shall not be alone again.

Yet let us swear, with stinging, sand-wet eyes,
Nor whether wealth or ruin be road's end,
Through lips gone dry and long past love's mirage,
Our journeys shall not be alone again.

-- Stephen K. Roney

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