By Hannah Mead
“I am coming,” He whispers, with
cypress smoke and cinnamon.
I’m waiting, straw clutched between cold fingers
pushed through impatient pockets.
But tonight, the promise of dawn lingers
heavy below the horizon.
Perhaps Venus is pinned like a diamond
in the darkness behind the shed that
tilts, weary, at the bottom of my garden.
“I have come,” I hear Him say, soft as
snow on streets damp with early evening.
My heart slows to the spin of the earth –
pine branches cradling the sky above me,
light glinting like the north star
from beneath my peaked roof.
His shadow spreads warm in the corner
of my eye – the scent of salt and silence.
“I am coming again.” He declares, voice dancing
up the path ahead, just wide enough for two.
I want to wander down to where
the river slices through barren fields.
I want to find a dogwood, blooming
blood and ivory against a thorny crown.
I want to watch the sun pierce the final frost.
I want to go home.
Five candles flicker, restless, in the window –
tomorrow is coming sooner than I think.
Hannah Mead is an aspiring poet with a slight obsession with lavender tea and a very definite obsession with reading. She is blessed to call the rainy but beautiful country of England her home, though she is currently pursuing a degree in English in the equally rainy but beautiful Pacific Northwest. Words in all their various and delightful forms are some of her favorite things.
You can find more of Hannah’s poetry at The Way of Delight.