I met him in a cave,
Led there by a wolf
Who said he was my guide –
But that was a joke.
Imagine the wolf’s howls
Of laughter as I faced
Mark Twain, the real host.
There he stood before me,
Dressed in white,
His gray hair shimmering –
He brought that light with him.
I paid my respects
And gratitude for this sighting.
What a surprise, so unexpected.
He told me many sad stories to pass along.
Twain, I don’t think I’m the scribe
Who can pen your journey!
I’m not the one who knows boats.
Now, there’s the irony,
Scratched in his tears,
Choosing me as kin.
What am I to learn
From this master’s words,
Wrought in sorrow.
Can it be penned by a mere traveler
On her own soul voyage?
Is it that we share
What his heart holds?
Is Grief my albatross,
Caught in my sails?
Winds cannot release her, but I must.
Her grip’s an illusion.
I’m not in her talons.
Nor was he.
Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard
Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/10203536627334068
Image: https://sfbaytripper.com/2012/09/10/22-best-quotes-about-san-francisco/
Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver 
Did you write this? And once again, you’ve got a soothing voice. I could listen you read your beautiful poems and fall asleep at night. Keep reading 🙂
LikeLike
Yes, I write all my poems. Thank you so much!
LikeLike