The Pilgrimage

I have clawed through the soil for you
dug my fingers deep into the cool of the earth
in search of the mother bulbs beneath my stomping boots
there is no freshly planted garden
no long-established Eden
that I have not desecrated with my desire to discover your name.

There is dirt packed into my pores
dry dust that I have danced in
and trenches of mud that I have died in
the salt of the sea at every end
to sting wounds and wash.

A hunt of the biblical sense, stenciled in the lights of every black night
I read your scent like scrolls in the sky
stumbling through rivers that held no water but only rocks
demolished mountains so large that from a distance they seemed but ill-placed dreams
burdened roots of bravery sewn into the pocket of my heart
blossomed from the smallest seed of the hope of you.

Filled nights with a rabid howl at the moon
trekked among lost worlds as a weary traveler
and swam through uncharteded veins like a shark driven mad with the scent of blood
with me, I carry you always.

And soon,
us.