Words are the building blocks along the path on which we are taken in this poem. Words carry us along, intertwined with our images until the end when we are left to carry on with our own vision.
The Prayer
Blessed be the year climbing its cliffs, the month crossing the fields
of hours and days, the bridges of minutes, the grass where we stood
that first moment, the festival music keeping our time, the hood
of the season's sky above us, the moment's fictive shield
against history, her tattered glance, her broken smile, everything real
or imagined, bless the rivers I invented to carry us, the woods
I planted as our own, bless even the sweet hurt, even the herd
of stars that trample my real heart which she has taught to heal.
Blessed be these trackless words running downstream
following the remote valleys she has cut through my life,
and blessed be the sounds they cannot make, but mean,
and blessed be all these pages watermarked with her name,
these thoughts that wander the unmapped roads of strife
and love, her blessed world whose dream is always a dream.
3 comments:
Very good, Reacher. I don't know the word "fictive", so tried to look it up in my dictionary. It wasn't in there. But I think it means imagined? I like the part about the woods he planted. Isn't it wonderful what our imaginations can conjure up for us?
Images can take us far, far away if we let them. I found the definition of the word fictive. You are exactly right about it's meaning.
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