She Who Is Called friendship

The house of the forest
grows quiet near evening.
Its roof is half-timbered
in birch;
its walls color washed
in twilight-blue.
A breeze stirs
summoning her
from a narrow loft of pines.
There, she sleeps
on the scattered down
of wren feathers and moss.

Softly, the maiden rises
at the urgent whisper of the wind.
She reaches for the sky
tilting a tall lantern of ice
toward the moon.

Pale fire ignites
and tints the glacial flask
in mellow tones of gold.
Shadows slant forward
with Magi grace
while prayer burns
unspoken
framing
the soft countenance
of friendship

She is called upon
by someone shivering
in solitude.
By some who needs
to hear her voice
and see the reflection
of her lamp and smile
anointing his cold mantle of bone.

With the shy caution of deer
her footsteps soon tread
the deep woodland snow;
and she comes forth
gratified to love
and listen in those corners
soaked hopeless by tears

-Wendy Howe




I live in Wallkill, New York, two hours, 60 miles North of NY City. This tragedy has shaken me to the core like so many other poets on this forum and others around the world. I don't know how to address such a senseless act of violence or terror other than concentrating on the goodness and compassion of humanity. That is the one reason I have dug this out of my poetic archives. It was written in the season of winter, of stark isolation and loneliness for a dear friend in need. Hopefully, I have defined the essence of amity, the personified spirit of friendship-based love in a dignified and graceful way. We all need to embrace that living energy of courage and hope and extend our own humanity to others suffering in this glacial stillness of time and shock. Though the most beautiful shades of Autumn begin to bloom in my back yard, I keep seeing the white smoke of buildings falling like an avalanche of snow from the crumbling Colossos that was called the World Trade Center.



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