Isolde's Song

After the deaths of Tristram and Isolde, a hazel and a honeysuckle grew out of their graves until the branches intertwined and could not be parted. Through our long years of dreaming to be one we grew toward an enigmatic light that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun? We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite the lack of all sensation—all but one: we felt the night’s deep chill, the air so bright at dawn we quivered limply, overcome. To touch was all we knew, and how to bask. We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt spring’s urgency, midsummer’s heat, fall’s lash, wild winter’s ice and thaw and fervent melt. We felt returning light and could not ask its meaning, or if something was withheld more glorious. To touch seemed life’s great task. At last the petal of me learned: unfold. And you were there, surrounding me. We touched. The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched, and learned to cling and, finally, to hold. Originally published by The Raintown Review and nominated for the Pushcart Prize; since published by Ancient Heart Magazine (UK), The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Sonnetto Poesia (Canada), FreeXpression (Australia), Boston Poetry Magazine, The Orchards, Strange Road, On the Road with Judy, Complete Classics, Better Than Starbucks, Fullosia Press, Glass Facets of Poetry, The New Formalist and Trinacria