Nasal

I was trawling through the murky waters of my section of the blogosphere when I spotted this. It was obviously written by someone I know for someone else I know. And it seems somewhat, even if only peripherally, related to the general mood at the moment. I present to you the poem rather oddly entitled, Nose.

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Nose

she asked if his name was a prophet's
she wondered at all on the road
she danced in the deeper discomfort
of bearing the heart-hidden load

she had no reply in the winter
she heard no reply in the spring
she looked at the deep-frozen thinker
upon the ice-hardened ring

in summer, he said, you shall see me;
in autumn before the leaves fall –
the words of the wind might not free me
but we all wait the sanctified call

the sight of a flame is not summons,
the sound of a drum not the horn;
but scent when the sacrifice beckons
and all will be bright in the morn