A gathering. A collection. A wandering of wistful wonderers.
A gypsy spirit, blinded, unable to see the beauty in the silver
That calls the others to her light as a beacon in their dark.
A dreamer desperately searching for a cure for that which needs none
As the richness of her dreams paint their world with an artist’s stroke.
A statue cracked and willed to stand by defiant pride and purpose
But filled and forged with the softness and warmth of gold.
The desert dwellers with spit and fire that breach and reach.
They show and tell what life lies within our grasp if we but stretch.
War torn arrival with unhurried words but with deftness of touch,
Brings laughter and life where one would not think to look.
So few of the so many in this our roaming restless tribe,
A fellowship with flaws perceived but pearls so precious,
Brought to me in a moment of serendipity that leaves me changed,
Permanently marked with sacred lines that bind me to their souls.
For all of you named and not, you who give me voice…for you I am thankful.