We were companions of the soul who made
us in his image, zodiac complete,
the rays of his extension. You, his feet,
the thunder twins his arms, a barricade.
The treasurer who would betray his will
incensed us all; we rubbed each other raw
until the day a quarter of us saw
what he perceives. The vision haunts me still.
Now each of us a hub, a higher grade
of understanding deems that we should meet—
the journeyer and rock, far from replete
and yet inspired. The comfort of his shade
in early years felt such a bitter pill,
forgetting sacrifice is not the law.
We are not Abraham. That was our flaw
until we walked among the daffodils.
Happy Birthday, G!
© Elaine Stirling, 2015