The Stone Step
by Steven Craig
Of late,
each time I arrive home,
there is a chance of seeing you sitting there,
on the stone step,
waiting for the passing of the slow parade,
the dust stirred
and needing to settle,
no hint of windage,
and few drops of rain.
It is difficult
to locate the missing part,
the one that fills in the corners
of your life and its dreams,
the one that understands the missing pieces,
knows the missing places,
and has the talent
and the skill
to assemble the answer
to fit you
from mere pieces in his hands.
And there you sit,
waiting,
like all of us,
for the human parade to sing their way
past your vantage,
and down the street
to what ever awaits it.
So few,
so very few ever stop
and in the grace
of a moment,
understand you.
What it is that awaits you,
is much like the line
that is found as the ocean recedes
from the shore
and sighs it's self back again.
Ever changing,
mercurial,
a lightning flash in a distance
that seems so far away.
Just a hint of some one there,
whose soul has traveled the same sea as yours,
whose dreams have shared the same fires,
whose needs spring from the same font as yours.
Always the shoe doesnt quiet fit,
the numbers on the ticket are a few digits off,
the parking meter expired,
the sale shelf empty
the size 8 is cut to a 10
and the wind is still.
Shadows in the evening,
each has its tale to tell,
and so few care to stop
and meet you face to face.
Shadows are so fragile,
fearing to contact the reason they exist,
feeble in the final test
to be real with you.
It is the eyes
that will first notice you,
and the arms that will first pick you
from the stone step,
the strength that will carry you off
to the future to be shared,
the hands that will protect you
from the fathomless night.
Still, I find you sitting there on that stone.
An icon to your desires,
a flame seeking a passing moth,
to share the moment both are consumed
in a mutual souls tempest.
It is the passage of so many
that are so alike
that makes that single moth so unique.
You hold your flame,
and the wind spares it,
knowing that tomorrow will find you there still,
flame unanswered.
The senseless night hours
have come
and I see you there no more,
hidden in the dusk
and the lowering fog,
the mist shares the warmth of your heart,
and swirls in the needs of your desires.
You are a jewel
that is mortal
and have such memorable hopes,
and to all that pass you,
as I,
remember you.
In the storm of the night,
in the hollows of the mountain coves,
where the forest is tall
and the leaves last their green until late fall,
even there the energy of your life
takes its course and flies in its fury,
the dawn seeming to be forever lost.
It is not for fear you close the door,
but for knowledge to be held
and kept in the deep well of your darkest corner,
the sweetest dream,
the softest caress,
the impact of a sunrise that is tomorrow.
That sunrise finds you,
rising from the deep sleep of forgetfulness,
and traveling but a few paces to the door,
you open it with trembling hands.
There is a sun reflection beyond,
and shadows appearing once more on the street,
moving to where you cast your eyes.
Once more
you take up your place on your stone step,
watching with beating heart.
Perhaps this day,
he will remember having seen you there
and will return to where the blossom in your heart has ripened
and knows the flood of your desires.
11/17/2007
