Musing out loud

I’ll wait for you here.
  I trust you’re not far.
          It was you who called me,
      after all.

I still remember.
  I lived in decay,
          the kind that can’t be overcome
      by strength or will.

In the cellar of broken dreams
  you shone your light
          and found me, emaciated,
      covered in cobwebs.

You left the old door open,
  standing just outside,
          and read out loud, so I could see
      stories in darkness.

Many seasons passed.
  But I finally emerged,
          lured to the sound
      of your lyric visions.

You placed one hand
  firm on my shoulder,
          and my knees nearly buckled
      from weakness.

You said, “Now you’ve come,
  emerged into light.
          And you’ll never return
      to the shadows.”

We walked.
  You talked of potential,
          of patience and study
      and time.

I listened.
  I watched the clouds climb
          where mountains reach out
      to the skies.

You talked of acceptance,
  the power of faith,
          a trust in the value
      of learning.

I listened,
  and built castles of sand
          and watched them return
      to the sea.

Then I suddenly saw it,
  the long steady path
          you had been hinting at
      with breadcrumb words.

It was covered in shrubs,
  weaves of poison oak,
          and the old fallen branches
      of deeply rooted tears.

And I found myself
  shifting the past years’ leaves
          beneath an uncertain tread
      of discovery.

Behind me I heard
  your soft-fallen feet
          hardly disturbing
      the settled breath of dew,

and the sound of your voice,
  naming the leaves,
          the blossoms, stones and creatures
      on the way.

And each had a story,
  of birth and being—
          the stones that weep dreams;
      the earthquake birth of ravens;

the old madrone
  who clothed the fox with her bark
          so he would not be cold;
      the star that seeded lilies.

And each was a marvel,
  a touch of understanding,
          a fresh new flash of light
      in my soul.

We came to a cabin,
  moons along the way,
          filled with lost ideas
      and empty pages.

I lit the candles,
  read beneath the darkness,
          and penciled meditations,
      brief as lake-borne mist.

Collecting berries,
  I played with long dead lyrics,
          reciting little moments
      to the wind.

One day you told me,
  “This time is yours.
          You can never really own it
      while I remain.”

And so you left,
  assuring you’ll return
          when one day I am ready
      to skim the stars.