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The Stoic
A passing happiness pulls
the corners of his slow mouth.
Thoughts divine are flies in his mind.
Willingly suspended, he has not
had cause to smile for some time.
Now that dirt grinds underfoot
and the road ahead finds rhythm
with rising heat, he has mind enough
to ignore the flies that thwack outside.
Whose eyes sweep, lose the bridge
but find the gate where late at night
under the moon's calm knowing
his feet would touch ground again,
around his hand hers would bend.
And though the flies of his mind
had since slowed with disbelief,
a boat reawakened by the shore
and his heart rose with memory.
The boat, the bridge broken above,
the pushing off, words aloft,
the constant loss regaining balance.
the corners of his slow mouth.
Thoughts divine are flies in his mind.
Willingly suspended, he has not
had cause to smile for some time.
Now that dirt grinds underfoot
and the road ahead finds rhythm
with rising heat, he has mind enough
to ignore the flies that thwack outside.
Whose eyes sweep, lose the bridge
but find the gate where late at night
under the moon's calm knowing
his feet would touch ground again,
around his hand hers would bend.
And though the flies of his mind
had since slowed with disbelief,
a boat reawakened by the shore
and his heart rose with memory.
The boat, the bridge broken above,
the pushing off, words aloft,
the constant loss regaining balance.
Posted 08/06/10
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