Gordon

Gordon 
He sings into the grain of things,

down on the ground to change

the pure white cotton of a shirt.

His songs—they sink into my brain and

link onto the pain as

he grabs my soul and leaves.

The troubadour— he sings unto the dawn,

then flees upon the big water

and the iron highway

that were locked inside my heart.
He does not stop for sundown

while trailing a ghost in his wake.

Yet he’s laid blue velvet atop the ice

to make my crossing easier.

His footsteps are light--

the loosened chains

never rattle a warning sound—

and I shed tears for the beautiful.

20 August 2010