Holly: what a white-souled, grey-faced child.
Her feet shrink in this snow,
Her head hangs down beneath this heavy sky…
Oh that I knew why.

Richard: not distinguished, wealthy, wild,
Not anything I know.
Yet warmly does he speak to me - he makes
Of me his human kin.

Stooped in bluish pools of grief-bruised skin
Her eyes that once were suns
So feebly and so nobly fail to shine:
Not if she were mine.

And why should I not answer one made kin,
In kindness’ kind? The nuns
Do just so much. If further comes,
It comes. I’ll plan no more.

I longed for paths lit longwise from above;
But each step lights the next for humble Love.

Note: This is a new version of my most recent Holly Brightweed poem, formerly labeled XIII. There was another that should have come before this one, and I’ve just posted it here where this poem used to be in its first version. To see all the poems in their most current versions and in their correct orders, visit the ‘Holly Brightweed’ page linked in my sidebar.

Two poems are left to post and I’ve nearly finished editing them both, so this story should be wrapping up pretty quickly. I planned for ten poems but after extensive editing, rewriting, and shuffling about, there are only nine. Before I consider this cycle finished I may end up writing another that develops the winter = loneliness theme that became so important at the end of the cycle. It would, I think, have to be inserted between Holly’s conisderation of the cloister and her meeting with Richard (this poem.) Does anyone think that  would help the transition any? Or should I refrain from developing my character’s misery any further?