Wearily venturing homeward,

axe notched and tabard torn,

amidst the clamor and din of trade,

the rushing sound of feet on stone,

and steady chant of lapping water,

with folded hands and gentle gaze,

you calmly wait.



As the nostalgic aroma of miso drifts, swirls,

You deftly brush your hair aside,

Leaves mirrored on midnight water.

Into your arms you take the scuffed, the grazed,

The cracked and bruised,

Then softly, swiftly,

A moment in time too fast to grasp,

The creases are smoothed,

And wounds are sealed,

The clamor retreats and



You nod and turn to the one beside me,

A wave crashes,

The street chatters with itself,



my heart flutters.

Vincenzo Mori
Cactaur

Mandragora Choker