Charles J Booker

She is . . .

favored by the birds and cattle
welcomed by the rising sun
circled by the westward wind
nature's chosen one

witness to the age-old battle
sheltered by the ancient trees
kissed by springtime's flying friends
natural in her ease

patron of the wood and pond
champion of the wild and free
fixer of the shattered limb
keeper of the sea

maker of the sacred bond
healer of the tortured soul
gatherer of those in need
mindful of the toll

traveler on the harsher path
resistant to the probing pain
giver of the gift she needs
mourner of the slain

stalwart in the aftermath
mender of the broken tree
willing sword for nature's wrath
everything to me

She thinks I pay no attention to her.
She assumes my mind is gone when she speaks.
As if she talks to a wall, as it were;
her words all flow to a bucket that leaks.

It's in one deaf ear and out the other -
a long exercise in futility.
So, she moves from one thought to another,
while my thoughts are out on some sort of spree.

She raises her voice, as if I can't hear.
She wants me to focus on what she says.
She believes she's making things very clear,
while my brain is off to Spain or Juarez!

But every syllable claps like thunder,
and her love has cast the spell I'm under.

Her lovely smile is anything but aimless -
it aims to heal.

Its brightness penetrates to depths
which light can never reach:
where broken hearts abide;
where the fearful choose to hide;
where all entry is denied.

It has a purpose, seeks a goal:
to find the shattered self 
and make it whole;
to warm the frigid soul;
to help restore what cruel life stole.

It reaches into places where 
no one dares to go, or cares to go:
where warmth is seldom known,
and tenderness is rarely shown.

Her smile has powers to make the 
callous plead. But as for those in
need, they need not be afraid.

And for a lucky few like me,
who feel her love so forcefully 
conveyed, it is powerful indeed.

Our dreams are like ships moored to twigs,
made fast with kite string.

Our hopes are balloons tied with thread,
floating on smoke rings.

Our lives hang by spiderweb silk,
in gossamer slings.

Our love is a fortress of steel,
guarded by starlings.