For What I Am

Morning cold dampness, lying low over frozen soil
Mother earth still, quiet
in the icy clamb of winters claws
the second month, when dark spirits are fought
and scared with wooden masks
this day, special, the day of Pan
kissing sweetly his flute, calling for love
to kindle the fires of fertility
and nature, to arise from her drunken sleep
to airbrush the bleak canvas with fragranced hues

The whisper of time, blowing through the trees
it touched your soul and my heart
you, so gentle, fragile, and yet so strong
you think you are not known
but your spirit went in front
for I knew you before I knew me
for both we stood, in some time past
the shallow pasture stream, softly flowing
around our limbs, though our limbs
and subtle, although sharp as a hunter’s knife
and blunt as a caveman’s axe
carving it’s way through my weathered bracken

And as time carves as well as heals
I sit at the waters edge
and feel the beauty around me
for what I feel is also what I am
and what you felt is also what I am