CROSS-STITCH CRUSADE - The journey away

A long weary traveler
invisible and mute,
with eyes pleading
beckons
still roadside ghosts.
(unheralded fervor
as quick as
passing fenceposts and
pole lines).

By blurred motion
green and ghosts
gallups a stallion
untamed,
Chasing clouds and
elusive gifts of
rekindled life and
saddled riders prancing
proudly to the gate.

(Frozen flames
in a dancing sunburst)

Fingers like ice-sticks
slowly protrude,
(thin and cold)
melting orange sparks
that drip
smoke diamond tears.

Shivers chase paths
of the chilled miner
Home.

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