His love was a fledgling –
awkward in its moulting,
a pupation of sorts.
His grasp of her essence
floundered in the reeds
where others moved sure;
progress screeched
and twittered, juvenile
in proportion and quality.
But true love has a way
of making a man;
where finesse was lacking,
perseverance found flight –
I still see them soaring, now and then,
where time and age cannot clip their wings.
Shine on, little one,
though your petals crack
with cold and icy
shivers lick hungry
at your tender throat.
*
Shine on when Arctic
winds whisper white lies,
slanderous icebergs
distorting your image,
warping your purpose.
*
Shine on when frosty
tentacles deaden
pulse, sluggish sap-drips
creeping in dead-end
veins, maze of the damned.
*
Shine on despite cold
that hounds, ferocious
predator alert
for signs of weakness,
patient for the kill.
*
For your name is Light.
Your breath blooms as warm
sunbeams. You were born
to spin straw into
gold; so shine, shine on.
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 