Ode to My Kindred Spirit

One day, I dreamt of many brave things;

things I wished to show her. My dear sweet dove,

I called her, for at night she warbles; she sings

like me for solace and wisdom from above

the rafters and dried leaves on trees.

We both make giggles on bended knees.

The light of stars and the tender scent of wheat

I meant her to have, the sun tickling her hair

and making it shine like an apple, the kind you eat

and not just place lonely on a table and stare

with pencils and charcoal or perhaps some paint and brush.

Such beauty, such truth must take ample time with no rush.

My daisy cousin; my hippie friend with braids

tied swiftly on her head. I simply cannot forget

to open her flushed eyes, her two portals with the aid

of her kind yet strong hands so that she might let

her strength finally meet her story told;

that gentle; that misunderstood; that gold.

I wanted her to feel hope in me but it died; dead

like the buried carcass of her sister's beloved cat.

I made note the potions and magics festering in my head,

but what normal person would have interest in that?

She and I certainly found comfort in such things

for we were both bred from imaginary queens; not kings.

Our Lady Sovereign; our Mother Earth did but call

to us whilst we were fresh in bloom. The sun

became our secret keeper. And with  backs to the wall

we strut in harmony; two kindred spirits with none

to answer to. I live in her to free

a world iced over with hate and greed;

a world lost; a conquered sea of red

that burns through us and wounds us deeply

like thorns under the skin; rocks under the bed.

We carry the burden; little support thrown cheaply

to all but us. Alone we must stand;

heart in mind; soul in sight; hand in hand.

One day, I called on her for care,

a Kleenex to a runny nose. She softly replied

with sighs like coos and kind words of rare

quality and simplicity; and perfect words I tried

to use with others in order to make

a life worth living; a life not to take.

She and I, we favor the smell of rainy days,

the sky in loud sobs, echoing our sorrow

and making us feel wanted; making us stay

a little longer, giving us another tomorrow.

Our fear abides to hidden spaces;

eyes and hands hung low alongside heavy faces.

We are rare; genuine; unique, us two.

The purest of diamonds. The softest of clouds.

I lift her and she lifts me and together we make through

the darkest of times and the thickest of crowds.

For thriving in a tattered world must be

a little bit of her and a tiny part of me.

November 24, 2009