March 17, 2007

The Storyteller

His body told me the same stories
that have been gouged into ancient stones
and whispered over swaying grasses -

old and brutal tales
of unquiet hills
and silent footpaths traced
lightly, by long-dead lovers.

Behind his collarbones,
I found echoes of songs
in a strange, half-forgotten language,
and careful, monkish illustrations
in the lines of his thumbprint.

The rustling darkness illuminated
the roads the evening traveled,
and his cool, mobile mouth
filled the air with mist.

Just before the sunrise,
I asked for one more story.
It fluttered through my bloodstream,
and, afterwards, he left.

Some say I am well-traveled.
I have seen many countries,
lit fires on many beaches,
and sailed through many seas.
But, though I've seen much of the world,
and stopped at many islands,
I'm sure I've never found one
as magical as his.

No comments: