Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver

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

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