I Pass

The gnarled and majestic forms

Of passing trees in winter.

Live oak in dark gold, cracked nobility

Like a singlehouse crumbling alone

-Sadness, sympathy, beauty, respect-

Like the last dying glow of sunset

On a day you ache to begin again.

I walk by half-dead history and I want

To kneel and bow my head with furrowed brow,

To touch and serve and worship.

I never do.

I pass, like everyone else,

Hoping quietly, secretly, for its life again.

-

Not you.

I will not pass you on the streets of Charleston,

Among the ancient perfumes of magnolia and horses

Lingering in a world that has all but forgotten them.

Let me kneel.

- -

So? Good, bad or indifferent, don't be shy. All ink is good ink, so please review!

-J