the wanderer

(after losing everything)



winter arrives



there might be a storm

of ice and snow

in days



I’m not ready

but I’m never ready

not when I have so little

with which

to endure



I’d sell my soul

for food

and warmth

but God won’t let me



there is still the notion

of my soul

that is

assayed as worthless here

but might

be worth something

set on a scale

for heaven



so I shall

persist

until my spirit

has run dry

of blood

and will

and pray to God

that I’ll be taken easily

once warmed before I die



and only so much

before

having arrived

I’m washed in comfort

and apology

in paradise



c l couch





inspired by “The Wanderer,” a poem from a millennium ago at least, and by pressing issues now



photo by Noah Silliman on Unsplash