Poem by James Wadman
I touched her cheek as if I could take her
away from the secrets that claw at her heart,
when sorrow climbs from her own creations
unseen to the world aside from her maker,
they settle like white snow on her coat.
She says there is no prayer or beauty
if her story ends in sorrow and snow.
And when I can’t steal her from dark,
she says the face of a hero does not suit me.
But these little if’s and when’s mean nothing.
I still see the sun on the snow in the skies
and a glimpse of the remedy in your eyes.