2016 07 30
Wind swirls in random circles without hope
over vast prairie slopes of brittle grass
on sun-blistered hills where no frail trees grow,
and lingers in the breath of an old woman.
Trembling from cold wind in tattered pink dress,
Christina digs fingers in ancient soil
and crawls through grass of aching sorrow slow
toward wood house that creaks on the gleaming hill.
I want to enter her overcast world,
where her heart beats strong with determined will,
as she lingers staring at blank gray sky,
and carry her close to my faithful breast.
Staring at the painting on glossy page
that shows Christina crawling tawny hill
toward empty horizon of nameless hope,
I want to touch her face and kiss her lips.
I whisper in quiet library hall,
though I am twelve and will live many years,
my soul is stuck forever in her world,
longing to hold Christina in my arms.
I push through glass door in hot Texas sun
and ride my bike on college campus walk,
then pause and stare at distant sun-lit hill
where forever Christina crawls nowhere.