When we met again, the moon was full.
Under the apogee, the bond was made
and we were together.
Now Luna has retreated.
She dwindles beneath the horizon,
and I must follow.
Over widening distance, I look back
to the mountains that mark my past and future home.
In a grim mockery of impending times
clouds roll over the skyline and hide the bulk,
at once reminding me wherefore I prepare.
A last break in the blanket lets slip a sunbeam,
a perfect spotlight on a valley of golden foliage.
I imagine lifting the veil there, before a procession.
A momentary last glimpse, then both images dissolve
and longingly my mind remembers for whom I prepare.
Ah, there I linger again...
The one other, the singular exception.
The only one more alone, the only companion, the only equal.
The better of what was forgotten, the image of what will be
as if disowned by her own time, out of place here.
Though denied, there is profound beauty there.
Her flesh is opal: smooth, fine, forgiving,
holding fire only percieved by the keenest sense.
Eyes like a scrying pool in a great forest:
clear, steady vital; the eyes of a youth,
but holding things far beyond their apparent age.
She pushes me forward, lifts me up,
then apologizes for holding me back.
She apologizes for sins she never commits
and silently tolerates all my trespasses.
She suffers pain I cannot imagine
but still devotes herself to me.
She has done so much for me
and I have nothing to give in return,
save this: I will never desert her.
While I still think, move and feel, she will be safe;
without her, I could do none of these anyway.
In return for my salvation, I will bring hers.
When I had to leave, she almost cried.
Now thinking of what I put her through, I do.
"You're always going," she once told me.
So I count the days, then weeks, then months...
One day I won't have to go, won't have to leave her.
In the dark, I whisper to her and myself:
"However far away, I will return."