Mitilda stood aloof
Against the backdrop
Of that cold November night.

He needed shelter,
And not just the walls
That would thwart
The frigid turn
His path had taken.

He was bereft,
Stripped of every passion,
His colors diluted
In a world of grays and blur.
His heart flickered,
A candle on the verge
Of suffocation,
The air nearly too dense
For breath.

He was desperate for rest,
A place to keep
The spinning grief at bay;

And there stood Mitilda,
Sturdy despite the neglect
Of the careful hands who made her,
A dark invitation,
A womb for rebirth,
A silent cloak
For the inner screaming
As his life derailed.

At first,
The meager warmth she gave
Paled him.
It was a dank refuge,
But it soothed him somehow.

Little did they know,
She needed him as much as
He needed her,
Timbered arms full of years
That ached for a human companion.

As the nights wore on,
He tended to her,
Clearing cobwebs,
Scrubbing away the years
Of filth, of neglect,
Of abuse.
In doing so,
He tended himself as well,
The sort of nurturing
Born of too many years without
Love and respect.

In return, she absorbed his sorrow,
Thirsted, in fact, for every vibration,
And, like her ancestors
Still thriving in the ground,
She possessed the ability
To transform his shadows
Into light.

Little by every tiny little,
They turned, together,
Those injured places
Into ground ready for fresh seeds.

When, at last, he was ready,
He tarried some,
Cradling a grateful heart;
The regeneration of hope
On a warm, summer breeze
Whispered healing for both,
The reluctant Matilda renewed,
And the loving soul she sheltered
Restored by her powerful protection.

06/05/2016

Author's Note: For my very dear friend Jeff.

Posted on 06/05/2016
Copyright © 2024 Alison McKenzie