Sacred Romance

Sweet Ancient of Days, Come to me wearing any disguise: thorny rose soft-footed snow mournful wind or rain tippity-tapping my window pane. Romance me, though all around me prove false though mountains shake and the hills be removed—-romance me then, or not at all. I will learn to love the snow because of you learn to pick out the disparate notes of your serenaded love in melancholy music, in the fresh smell of cotton dresses steam ironed in the remembrance of my father’s laughter ( though now its merry swirl is lost to me.) Wear wood smoke as your cologne and autumn’s vulgarity of colors as bold contrast to my drab little self. Like a blind woman whose fingertips have grown accustomed to Braille, to the unique texture of things, I will caress the barks of trees the familiar landscape of knee scabs; will tremble with desire to be the warp and woof of your weaver’s loom, my self woven (bones, hair and all) into a gorgeous tapestry, another kind of tapestry than what I dreamed I could be. Ancient of Days, my dreams are too big for me; my child’s hands fumble them clumsily even as I blink back tears at my ineptness, my lack of grace. I turn at the slightest rustling sound my ears keen for your approach. Oh! I love you so, I betroth myself to you to your light in my baby brother’s eyes, and to the sound of your lullaby meant just for me in the sighing of falling embers and in sun drenched streets I dare not explore without you. Sweet Ancient of Days: tarry with me one more hour linger near while mother frowns over the stove and the step-dad smirks at my stupidity; stay lest my soul wither away and I lose myself for want of you. Stay.