Carol's Alchemy

         — Inspired by "To Wanda, Who Knows I Know She Knows I Know" by Carol Desjarlais

Leaves curl in quiet acknowledgement 

as you walk this tenacious path, 

vivid and verdant smiles unfurl

from Nature's trust for one such as you —

she who will not be named only 

by rainbowed hues, bold shades rising slowly 

from sweet grass, precise and precious fragrances 

far too lovely to describe with frail and futile words.

Although our eyes have never met, our hands have not yet held,  

our souls recognize sacred, sorrowed intimacies of sisters 

cut from similar broad cloth, carved from sturdy stone; 

intricate weavings become and becalm revelations 

as we peruse possibilities of the day, 

elaborate patterns which whisper secret wildness 

as we pursue remnants of the night — 

a shock of starlight falls swiftly 

from the infinite sky's deep darkness, 

bringing us to our knees before this familiar shrine.

We need not speak in currencies of sunlight,

for silence is dear and will not be bartered.

No frigid winter could restrain elusive birdsong 

or detain unexpected arrivals of butterflies 

carrying honey-heavy messages from afar.

No sweltering summer could turn our harboring hearts 

into hardened clay, to be cracked apart, piece by piece, 

broken into something less than they could ever be.

When dusk comes to us on slippered feet, 

our shuttered breaths slow into sultry sighs, 

anticipations of moon's rhythmic courting — 

we gently grasp these tender things as songs 

we hear and thus, must share beyond solitude.

Across changing landscapes and evolutions of moments,

we have carried each other's curses aloft 

and brightly borne the blessings of both.

We discover what we've learned as wisdom forms 

from pearls gathered from seas too deep to fathom,

potpourri harvested from fields too wide to measure.

Beneath this thin canvas, 

fierce fires burn — 

embers settle as ash drifts into memory;  

our fingers shadow-dance, ache with echos, 

etching hieroglyphs as we await 

subtle promises of dreams to come — 

silvered streams and strands of light remain — 

close enough to endure simple gestures of grace, 

distant enough to summon extraordinary courage.