In the middle of
my middle age
on a thick, grey
Christmas Day,
I saw a photo of Leonard’s grave--
stark as bone
bleached by desert sun.
A Star of David etched,
to light his way home.
I wandered out from my own,
to find a trace,
of the certain sort of place
a high priest as he
might pray.
Cantering lopsided, along …
a sweet black dog.
We pushed through meadow,
we pressed through fog.
Over roots wrapped ‘round
sun-speckled boulder,
finally stopping
by the river’s shoulder
where,
“He
sank
beneath
your
wisdom
like
a
stone.”
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