Hiraeth Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

Luna falls behind a wall of dense clouds;
my thoughts drifting into the deep, dark night.
There are things about me that none will know,
half-hidden in secretive candlelight.

My impulse to move, my reasons to stay,
my whims are like wind across the water.
I am kismet, carved in destiny's wheel.
I am a woman but no one's daughter.

Nothing too special nor notably grand,
I am a shadow that whispers unheard.
I linger in longing, ceaselessly age
beyond the backbone of every word.

My pen is a needle to thread the moon.
I harness starlight from another clime
and gently dream it and wish it were so
that I were conceived in another time.

This world suffers profoundly from the core.
It seems everything is come undone.
We trip in darkness, balance on the brink,
wrap Rosaries around a coward's gun.

I yearn for the where of sweet yesteryears,
the absence of tears in penitent eyes,
and the consoling calm of love's escape
like soft-pleated wings across endless skies.

Luna gathers the hem of her pale dress,
skirting softly over the garden loam,
returns to my city, my street, my name
behind the beautiful walls of my home.