ST. GERALD

Gerald closed his eyes to rest, and found eternity.

Pilgrim, see him still. Preserved in youthful beauty.

The story? The story as was told to me:

Like all young men he sought to fight.

To vanquish wrong. To lift his sword. To prove his worth.

He was a century too late. Or more.

Searching plain to mountain, cave to sea,

his boots worn thin as skin, he traced the tracks.

His only hope, which led him to Pathetico;

a haggard dragon, wan, forlorn, with slackened scales of gray.

Only a coward would cut him down.

The man in throes of deep despair

cast his sword to God knows where.

This would-be knight was more than lost.

His soul had ceased to guide him.

Having not one thing to name or claim,

true north and south crisscrossed within.

He wandered off into a meadow

where small blue flowers sang, clamoring, clutching at his feet.

Which way earth? Which way heaven?

But, what there, in the distance?

Pathetico had seen, and straight way loved the man.

Friendless but for swallows and flies that buzzed his head,

he followed on in loyalty with dragging tail behind.

Dizzied by infinite flowers of blue, (the genus which he could not place)

in rusted armor of massive weight, the weary man fell down,

crushing four hundred thousand petals.

The blossoms screamed and fought to rise.

Pushing up with all their might they caused him then to levitate,

and thus transformed him into saint, as witnessed by some angels.

But Gerald, sleeping, sleeping still, missed the marvel of his fate.

(His form, adorned, hung on my wall, looks strangely like my husband.)

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