I gasp;
Withholding breath, with quickened pulse, I gasp.
My mind attempts, like light-beams on a dull gray day,
To break—to penetrate—forgetful fog;
At last alighting on a face, a face unseen—
Not seen for countless restless nights or days of dark.

And soon—
So desperately I strive to speak—and soon
Some silent sighs arise from sources deep within,
Rekindled ashy logs grown cold when time
Just stopped, when time’s impulsive sands just ceased—deceased,
Entombed in shrouded black: their daily dreams found dead.

Unless—
Their story has not reached its end—unless
All seeds require varying depth to spread their shoots,
To shoot their skyward stems upright toward light,
And grow, to answer heaven’s ‘twitch-of-thread’-like call,
The call to live: to bud, to bloom, bear fruit in gift.