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Poemission |
Weary Hand Stretched to Heaven |
The gnarled limbs above him blot out the stars, even the moon hides from his eyes, but he learned long ago how to navigate in the dark. Despite the clutching briars and invisible stones that hinder his pace, he trudges on, because somewhere ahead are the faint, lilting strains of joy, and his heart can no longer bear the silence. At last he finds the clearing where They are gathered. He advances upon them with powerful strides, straight back and open hands, fearing nothing, yet he remains at the edge of their circle. He craves the warmth of the fire central to the gathering, still shuddering from the cold, but he is wary of its burning touch, recalling colder mornings waking beside spent embers. He will join the dancers in their thoughtless frolic, their fleeting embraces, foreknowing that one by one they will leap the fire and disappear with a trail of sparks into the shadows. Again he stands alone by the fire, praying its heat could match that within him. He lifts his eyes to a twinkling heaven with a glimmering of hope that one night, one night like this, celestial grace will allow a solitary firebolt to find him and pierce his darkness, it in turn blazing the brighter for their union. |