Across the Chasm 

She returned to the pasture 

carrying the baby  

she had all along. 

Out of the mist,  

a chasm appeared 

a cold wind blew 

a raucous call echoed 

narrow memory lanes kindled.

A darkness settled into her 

waking the baby never quite asleep 

dulling the whisper of her breath 

squalling fury alone in the desert.

A lullaby floated, 

the voice of love  

cloaked in needless words. 

A bridge stretched. 

Across the chasm 

stood a stranger 

with silver hair.

Words spinning themselves 

into cool cotton swaddles 

and warm calloused palms, 

the steadying rhythm 

of hearts beating with hers.

Her life’s longing, 

a warm whisper 

a wispy breath 

at once strange and familiar 

the language of warmth.

She crossed the chasm 

the stranger holding her gaze 

with warm, familiar eyes. 

It was her— 

the baby, she, the silver stranger.