Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Wingman



I see him there, perched and waiting.
Watching, waiting,
just for me.

Hounds at my heel, unrelenting, nip and tear
with no relief.

His hand clasps mine both firm and tender;
up and up, he puts me there.
In the branches, he conceals me, far above the hungry stare.

On the door, words are written, "this girl allowed."
I finally breathe.

His laughter cool, a sweet elixir, turns the hounds--
one more reprieve.

The din below, I have forgotten.
His hold is sure;
he will not leave.

The din below is long forgotten.
Within laughter,
there is peace.