thank you for your token of kindness,
which fill my pockets with gratitude,
to savor tender naïve kiss;
to break my cruel and shameful attitude.
forever feeling joy you gave,
along this mournful road i’ve made;
travelers we, share more or less,
only raising hands to bless.
offerings of puddles that quench desire,
stopp’d by coarse and gavel’d dirt,
falling to my knees of fire,
which crack and tear at flesh’d foot soul,
no longer to protest this earth;
no longer hold this beggars bowl.
surrendering to mans sweet death,
for giving way to sweeter birth,
tis in giving, i give my breath,
tis in giving, accept my worth.
mountain’s injury reduced to sand,
no longer curse this cursed land,
that persist to soil and burn,
my wounded scarr’d and blister’d hand;
*“to every season there’s a turn”.
for looking back with blinded eye,
weak bent back, each day to die,
to clearly see so vividly,
your tearful eye reflecting me.
copyright 2010, william teague
* line 23 taken from, Ecclesiastes