Inside The Hearts' Walls

j?A! M!t(hE//'.....


          ...had to be there.....
There are some things which are too good for words.....
For to me it might be a triple shot of espresso,
Black and tan no sugar no cream,
Kissing the air and catching my nostrils.
Could be the amazing view
From my daughters grandmothers kitchen window
That looks past the empty country hi way
And out to a patchwork green field filled with mono chromatic bovine
Shrouded with an early morn' mystic topped with golden gilded clouds
And angelic shafts of light cutting through the mist, giving ride to arabesque
Evapo Ray shun.....
The quiet beauty of the morning enchants me
And offers escape to a tolkin imagined shire
Where I wait with baited breath hoping to catch a glimpse of Iroquois on horse back
Or majestic bison diffusing this veil of vapor.
Truth be told I half expected a Celt of yore to materialize
And he traverses alone and stoic,
The remnant of some long lost and forgotten war
Where he waged battles in the name of stolen love and lost rites.
I can see him in his musty garb and damp boots as he, crossing the dew slicked asphalt
Ascends the stairs to the sun room only to stare at me as pained as the glass in the frame, with cryptic eyes he would ask in his ancient and glorious tongue for a cup of coffee and a warm hearth by which he might warm his bones as he has traversed many miles and has many more to go and i can say that i ought to have welcomed him in with. A hearty embrace and invite him to share his tale...
               ..............he spun a yarn as I sat captivated,
               And told of far away lands,
                              Of francs and english alike that he vanquished with his own two hands.
               With a far away look he told of a brook
                               That he explored when he was just a lad and how when still young
                He left kin and kith in search of glory abroad.
                                He moaned out a dirge that spoke of maidens fine and fair with
                Skin of silk and long flowing hair
                                That reminded him of his brothers cousins golden mare.
                 Long into the night he spoke of the plight
                                 That plagued his brothers back there
                  And although he loved to roam he missed the loam and felt his wife calling him
                                   To come home.. Come home... All you who are weary come home..
                                    Tenderly earnestly you know your being called all you sinners come
                                      Home......
                    Yep..... Too bad some things are too good for words.....