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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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