Hold my hand, my love; a mystic river runs between.

Walk along its misty banks, our hands barely touching.

But sometimes river widens and fingers slip away;

Gone from sight as river rises to a wintry lake.

Lost upon a distant marge across a restless sea;

On farthest bank, lake is fed by mystic mountain creek.

There our hands unite, though secrets keep of what we saw;

Drawn apart by fate, our faith kept to that rocky shore.

Walk alone we must at times, though never far apart

Hearts that beat in sync will find their way without a chart

Take us where the creek is born, where lonely banks shake hands;

Walk with me, my love, until our days of walking end.

’til that day, please stay with me beside our mystic spring.



Erik Kaisson, 2017

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