El Camino

We read that story, tonight, about the woman who was moved to remember the name— the name and the life of the boy who came and stood outside her window all that cold, rainy night, before she went away— The name and the life of the boy who took to his bed a week after that— who took ill with bronchitis, pneumonia— it is not clear; then swiftly passed from this world to the next— And we read that it was a song that touched a chord and sprung this memory open like epiphany— Like sudden snowfall more brilliant than light, outlining the roofs, the streets, each lamp-post in town— And do we know, do we know what that is like, someone asked— such recklessness, such love? And how many will say they would burn for some glimmer, remote, unreachable, afar? The pillows are cold; the coverlet needs turning— But here we are, with our love of warmth, of touch, of what is kind— We close our eyes, we slip our muddy feet into the icy stream.


In response to Via Negativa: Pilgrimage.

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