Lena
and sweetest in the gale is heard
and sore must be the storm
and sore must be the storm
Stranger she might be, but Lena had always prided herself on being a good listener. To animals in need, to people who required the same; capable of intermingling her voice without shades of judgement, without facades or visages to cloud and clutter the mind. While he talked, she painted brushstrokes of stars across her lantern’s makeshift landscape, and then pondering, tilting her head vaguely, to reflect a tundra perhaps, as he spoke at length of a world vast and beautiful and dangerous.
Like some of those she cared for. “So you come from a land made to endure,” and she smiled, gentle and quiet, her eyes remaining focused on the task, permitting an openness, a frankness, an earnestness to be shared. “I can see that in you,” as formidable as the wake in which he’d been born within. She paused momentarily, cleaning off her brush again, going for a lighter shade of pink, nearly white, to intermingle with the rest of the scenery. “Do you think that’s why some people choose to live there?” The beauty? The fortitude? The might?
Like some of those she cared for. “So you come from a land made to endure,” and she smiled, gentle and quiet, her eyes remaining focused on the task, permitting an openness, a frankness, an earnestness to be shared. “I can see that in you,” as formidable as the wake in which he’d been born within. She paused momentarily, cleaning off her brush again, going for a lighter shade of pink, nearly white, to intermingle with the rest of the scenery. “Do you think that’s why some people choose to live there?” The beauty? The fortitude? The might?
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm
that kept so many warm
