Woman In Silver Mist

Woman In Silver Mist
© Surazeus
2017 10 18

While sitting in my quaint suburban home,
listening to Mozart on the radio,
I gaze out the window past shimmering veil
of our great nation of America
and see frail woman in white on dark road
who grips a knife that drips with burning blood.

Through swirling sparks of mist that blur my eyes
she rises from shadow of ancient woods
and grips my arm with hands of gnarled oak bones,
then her blue eyes, red as the sun at dawn,
pierce my heart with anguish of nameless horror,
and then she faints into my trembling arms.

I carry her through wood of laughing ravens
to river shore where water sparkles bright,
but all the houses of our little town
groan as black skeletons in heaps of ash,
burned by wild flames that sear my aching heart,
and she hisses as she weeps in gray smoke.

"The raiders stormed our feast hall at midnight,
chopped off the heads of all our honest men,
and raped the girls who could not get away,
then burned everything we built with our hands,
while I hid all night in the old oak tree,
shivering in the rain of horror and fear."

I carry her to grove of flowers and herbs
where I clean her wounds, feed her apple juice,
and sing sweet melodies to soothe her fears
when she wakes frightened in moonlight and weeps.

We sit together when the robins chirp
cheerful tunes in the swirling mist of dawn
to eat strawberries and walnuts while they play.

She wakes in evening twilight with soft smile
that shimmers with joy of her healing heart,
so we hold hands and walk on river shore
where moonlight gleams on white wings of the swans
who glide on the pool that reflect gold stars.

I smile with joy and give her blooming rose,
then her blue eyes, clear as lake ice at dawn,
pierce my heart with desire of aching love,
and we kiss like honey bees on white blossoms
of apple trees that fall on our moist skin
as we make love under the singing moon.

I bring her stew and apple juice each day
where she sits singing in sun-dappled grove
while her belly swells like apples that grow
large and round in the kiss of sun and rain,
and I sing as she smiles with pleasant joy.

She bears young boy with eyes blue as the sky
glowing like bird eggs after storm clouds pass,
and he smiles while suckling milk from her breast
as she sits among apple trees and stares
through swirling mist at the red glow of dawn.

Returning with rabbits for evening stew,
I find our boy alone among gold flowers,
giggling as he reaches out little hands
to touch the wings of scarlet butterflies,
so I run through woods of whispering fear,
searching for the lost woman in the mist.

She sits among the ruins of her home
where skulls of her children lie cracked in ash,
and she weeps, clutching at her broken heart.

I cuddle her close to my loving heart
while her gnarled oak hands cling to me in fear.

I lift her from the cold ash of the past
and guide her through the woods of swirling mist
to grove of apple trees where our new child
coos bright at the sight of her tear-streaked face,
and reaches out his hands for her embrace.

She lifts him from the flowers with soft sighs
and cradles his head while she smiles through tears,
then gazes at him with adoring love
while he suckles fresh milk from her warm breast,
and hopeful sorrow clutches at my heart.

Returning to the present in my home,
I wonder at their names and where they lived,
and if that boy, born from sorrow of death,
was my ancestor who lived long ago.

I smile while watching birds play in the trees
outside my window where red apples hang,
and wonder with weird sensation of awe
why that memory glows in my mind now,
and what sparked it to play in waking dream.

Rising from my seat, I walk through my home
and watch my children in computer room,
one painting pictures and chatting with friends,
and the other editing video clips
to make a movie of her friends at school.

All our ancestors live inside our minds,
and the memories of their lives glow warm light
to dispel the shadows of ancient fears
which guides our way as we live each new day.