It's an elusive friendship, sparked by misunderstanding.
She spied your soul spun out on blood-speckled pages,
its edges torn ragged, mended with longing for another.
You sliced off limbs with slashes of your pen.
She wished she could lighten the pain, spirit it gone,
bury it so deep it sinks under the surface calm.
She left roses, thorns and all, on a riverbank conjured
of fragrant air and raindrops spattered on wet sand.
A thorny friend, she is opinionated, prickly, easily stirred,
a snarl too ready on her tongue and with too open a heart.
She missed the lighter you, the cheeky phrase you sometimes turned,
your friendly mien. You spared her barely a glance, not surprisingly.
She might knock on your door, borrow a cup of fancy or a poem,
share thoughts to surprise, abstract you from yourself.
Her door is open still: say friend and enter, stay awhile.
Who knows what drinks and comfort you might find...
Until then she plants seeds of friendship in a pot by the door
and keeps the soil moist; perhaps they'll grow.
Sends honest prayers for a hearty life, whispered
on easterly winds, sincerity and truth in place of faith.