A Pilgrim, an Arête, a Foreign Homeland

Long I have wandered
The loveless spaces
Cold and jagged
Gashed soles and faceless
In the fog
I call out to You
Silently while wolves howl.
There is nothing new,
Not even the fears
I press into my chest
Your fold-worn words;
I love them best.
I huddle around them
My only warmth and hope,
My only foothold
On the icy slopes
My only friend
In the frozen wilderness,
In the hands of indifferent winters
My only touch of tenderness
Burned by the cold
Biting where I’m exposed
So long I have wandered
In search of repose,

Aching to find, to feel,
To fold myself against

A warm chest
Secure to rest
Your words in flesh
Cradling to mend and capable
Somehow capable

Of truly loving loveless me

Never letting go.