Dependent, bonded, true:
I am to you.
No maiden fair, but fairly made,
Adored but unadorned, as aspects fade;
Our link unbreakable, it seems,
As far as reckless dreams
May be; harder than time,
Deeper than the blinding cold,
This puzzling, fearsome climb,
Failing, falling, finding
You above, beneath, behind,
To guide my awkward flight,
I leap, oblivious of altitude
Or attitude,
Errant landings, or proper treason
Of my bones; despite
The glory of the sky’s bright charms
I range no further than the reason
For your smiles, the answers in your arms.

Anita Hunt
March 24, 2007

Silhouette

Silhouette
It was never me, it was you;
My body bears your imprint and your trace
As I have bourn the profile of your weight;
Beneath my frame, a phantom of your image
Hides a dance in firelight; no true
Details, but shadows only, leaping, chase
My dreams, grown cold and pale among the great
And raging flames: declined, diminished, dim.

I am the way I am
the way (you are).
It is not want, but what I cannot claim
That feeds the famine buried in my soul.
No lack of light, but blindness to the day
That seeks the sight’s surrender to a far
Less sunlit plane. I waltz among the lame
And whisper to the deaf, “be well and whole;”
Though I am lost, I have no words to say.

Anita Hunt
Revised
03/22/07