Arrival

(for Clementine)

I wait for you to appear;

you whose life I’ve

selfishly spared.

Your human mother lays dying

even as you lie prematurely buried,

shrouded in darkness

beneath my bed.

Not a sound, nor a glimpse

have I apprehended

as you bide your time

weighing your fear of trust.

Yes, it’s clear to me:

You must come first.

But what if you never come out?

What if this seed which sleeps

hidden beneath my sleep

refuses to take hold,

to sprout, and become

for us both

a new reason to live?

You’re having none of me

for now. But I know

how to wait.

I want to love you.

Won’t you give me that chance?

Now you are mythical;

appearing like a portent

wished for or not;

you are your own 

gentle or cruel genie.

How could you know that

losing all that you loved

has made you more like me?

You’re refuge in a life

that no longer exists

is pure poetry;

your smallness barely

adequate for so giant a will.

Peter Valentyne

March 2017