Can’t say if he’s my north and
south, my sea and earth,
but I know he’s my compass always
pointing true.
He’s the track I lose sometimes, he’s
its frantic search.
The jet contrail aiming home
through the clearest blue.
He’s the stone fortress and its
secret passageway;
the arched roof of tunnels; the
stem of the goblet.
He’s the fizzing froth of light
that makes up the day;
he’s that single star improving
on the sunset.
Not my working week, no, he’s my blessed sabbath -
the spine of sacredness binding leaves
of routine;
he’s my quiet street, my escape
route, my private booth;
he is my ruby wine, he's my strongest
caffeine.
He isn’t my voice or tongue, neither
a song nor hymn.
He is not life or love. Only their synonym.
Back at the usual spot on the couch after the travels, much enjoyed the break and enjoying being back at rest too. That closes my year here, which has been good, writing-wise and otherwise, closing it now with gratitude and hope. Happy New Year 2016!
