saillesong

I stand waiting on the doorstep of forever,
the fisherman's wife pacing the window's walk although she knows her mariner is lost to the sea,
the faithful dog standing by the door, his owner dead and buried 10 years,
and you remain cold as frozen tundra,
silent as the sphynx,
mysterious as an incan tomb,
I cast a line out again and again,
with all the fury and hope of the fly fisherman in season,
i stand chisel in hand,
trying to fissure the granite that surrounds you,
ice winds blow,
threatening to blow out my candle of hope