Work Text:
I.
These wildflowers march across the road,
but slowly, month by month, from arid cracks
amid the paving stones they'll soon erode.
A solemn line of rocks in little stacks
adorns the earthen fringe and yellow grass,
whose aurum aura echoes tresses fair—
a woman's locks like rays through crystal glass.
She's gone, and neither sun nor sea would dare
impede her progress; winds are guides along
her route to frothing shores and frozen plains.
In borrowed furs she wanders there, in song
by silent song—each step, a whispered strain
of music, drives her forth toward her goal:
upon this path, a fellow stranded soul.
With tired soles and rosy cheeks, she knocks,
but answers come from baffled, foreign lips.
The one who lives here marches yon, where rocks
abound and rolling thunderclouds eclipse
the great and countless stars. She stays to dine
and dry her clothes, beholding fire's feast
before the limbs of sleep with hers entwine.
And ere the rosy light can paint the east,
she dons her furs and pack and braves the day.
The village streets are snug beneath the snow,
and thoughtless clouds construct a roof of gray
as tired farmers slowly wake below.
In reaches far beyond this lonesome home
does one estranged companion deign to roam.
II.
The deepest north is wastes, and they had been
before, at journey's end in former lives,
among forgotten tribes of scaly skin
and soul of flame amid the winters' knives.
Where once extinction loomed, a peace now reigns,
through sacrifice of souls whose mighty weight
once shattered stone and snapped their people's chains,
and she who wanders lent her hands to fate—
beside her old companion, yes—and made
the two of them an aid to icy Death.
These wrongs will not be righted here; not blade
nor spell can plant an ease in troubled breath.
A wound that never mends is one suppressed,
and must, from its beginnings, be addressed.
And she, this desert daughter, braves the ice—
the snaking mountain paths approach and flee
in turn the frozen sea—her steps precise
and fearing, rightly, years unbound and free
of her, indeed, with final breaths to glaze
the valley snow. Amid the pines she hunts
and thinks, as once she learned by hunger's craze,
though here her hands and head the weather blunts.
And who beyond the endless wilds waits?
The shapes of soul and body scarcely rest,
but soon this anxious wonder must abate,
for quarry's scent demands that she digest.
It won't suffice to crave and never dine;
to offer flesh for feast will beasts decline.
The withered evergreens are fleeting here.
The tundra spreads its bony fingers wide
and shine of snow disguises hare and deer.
From body's desperation, none can hide;
in frigid air, she sups but on her will
as muscle wanes and thoughts decay in kind.
Upon her cheek the flurries settle still
and struggle hard to melt as they're inclined.
A distant voice within her mind exclaims
in muddled tongue amid the endless howl
of tortured, toiling winds a hollow name,
mislaid between her sleep and flapping cowl.
And why in all the world should perish one
in ice who's seen the desert's morning sun?
III.
A light of orange, like the dawn around
her home, attempts to pry her eyes ajar.
A softness meets her ears—a void of sound.
Where once the winds had raised their fists to spar
now only timid candles flit and dance.
Beyond this bed and blanket stands a door,
a darkened gate to wintry Death's expanse.
She turns away and huddles, weak and sore,
afraid to rise and face her judgement's whole.
This life goes unredeemed beneath the sky—
such sins incurred demand a mortal toll.
But ere her rest returns does fate defy:
by click and creak makes entrance from the gloom
a slender form with hair and eyes abloom.
What madness drove her here, the figure asks,
in worry more than rage. A sparkle grows
within her eye, a fracture in a mask
of snowy skin—a drop of sorrow glows.
The desert daughter aches to find the words
and from her lips the ghost of murder spills—
remorse's flow unstemmed, though long deferred.
A hand alights upon her arm; it stills
her heart and lungs. She lifts her gaze to seek
her friend's forlorn visage of silent grace.
A tear cascades along her flaking cheek
and soon her aching shoulders find embrace.
Let not this weary heart be broken long;
a life is more than sum of right and wrong.
Her friend of shining tresses here returned,
atonement chief in mind for conflicts past.
Though northern wilds grudges once had burned,
can any fire's fuel forever last?
Contrition wins no hearts of soldier's creed,
but labor's honor proves the soul's intent.
So months and years revolved through work and deed,
and softer came the notes of grief's lament;
the call of home is weaker by the day.
These northern folk can charm and dance and sing,
though few among their ranks have gone away—
so foreign are the blooms and birds of spring.
To share this truth's a fate without escape,
but side by side they might decide its shape.
IV.
A quiet week elapses; life returns
and weather's worst abates with clearing skies.
The natives come with meals and concerns—
draconic faces chide with hardened eyes.
She sets her arms and mind to work again,
and labors long abandoned come to bloom
beside her friend, by day and night and when
the sun delays as twilight's umbras loom.
This daughter haunts the scorching sands no more;
her heart is set to melt the northern snow,
and when a day of rest arrives ashore,
her old companion's hands are made to know
that though this trek began beset by guilt,
together they have something kinder built.
These tundra grasses march across the plain,
and day by day her steps create a course
from chilly tundra beach's foaming mane
to piney embers' smoky glowing source.
Within the houses wide, the tribes reside.
To welcome or forgive? They are the same—
no vagrant treks this lonesome land, denied
a heart and hearth, for longer than a flame
unfed can dance upon its floor of coals.
And she is found, by friend amid the frost,
to seek entwining, bodies same as souls,
with comely legs and circumstances crossed.
Beneath the blankets, warmest whispers' bliss
gives way to fortunes beckoned by a kiss.