The Touch
By Lawrence Wuest
August 29, 2007
High in the hills above Acadie
on the lonely road of a summer day
we meet again
Margaret and I
kindred spirits of ages past
long exiled by the jagged path of life
We are now two elderly people
eyeing each other cautiously
We embrace
and the ancient flame still ignites
The magic of The Touch
resonates, pulses
through far off space
traversing eternity in an instant
Fantasy displaces reality
and we are again
two people
destined, fated
to join in union
in music and mirth
in spiritual exploration
of the world within
In the morning sun,
the singing of a tiny stream
ripples, then trills
in bright exultant splashes
We dance in the light and shadow
in ecstasy
in lyrical delight
But gradually the dance seems brittle,
awkward
constrained
years of living
in an unforgiving world
have hardened spirits
We probe, we circle
thrust, parry
retreat
counter thrust
a game, grim in its seriousness
but the intent is clear
not to hurt or wound
but to learn and inform
to understand
All too soon the moment passes
too soon the magic subsides
Years of existence in separate worlds
cannot be denied
Yet a gentle peace descends
a gentle acceptance of mutual places
in a harsh universe
We cast two sticks into the stream
We watch them touch
briefly
as the stream curves away,
reaching in futile longing for each other
before cascading into the flow
into the rapids
forever lost in the current
down to the sea
to wander in an ocean
too vast and complex
for two simple souls
to comprehend
About the author:
Lawrence Wuest is a Maritime Canadian ecologist, sculptor and poet, living amongst the remnant hills of the Northern Appalachian range. His poetry of personal, political and social themes has appeared previously on CounterPunch.
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