THE BEAUTIFUL BEAR

In this darkest part of the woods, where soil is restored by death,
I found myself a-wandering, so advised by dubious friends.
All this richness fueled by rotting turned my stomach, not yet my heart.
Yet I feared and had no fear that soon it would arrhythmic beat.

But irony like a fungus grows in places that deny it.
Here I met a thing I love, where creatures fall and are unmourned.
It was here I learned compassion, where the weak are built and consumed.
Here it was I found direction, where the course is marked in pitfall.

The beautiful bear stood silent, as did I, for there were no words.
The language burst with emptiness as I searched its swollen coffers
for such terms as were uniquely suited to this fine work of art -
that fastened no surplus value, were not crass and did not confine.

His fur lay luxuriously without the luxury of coats.
His eyes were the blue of sapphires, but were never ripped from their place.
He shone, his presence emerald green, with freshness void of commerce.
I longed to possess this asset, though ashamed by my grounded thought.

In the anicent tales I was told, the bear becomes the man one loves.
In truth, of course, he was that man; illusion stripped by illusion.
Love is a potent weapon, true, but so is cameraderie.
I hold my bearish darling close as we prune the woods to beauty.

1994

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