How can I try to explain who You are —
as few ever see You on their quest,
bedazzled by smiles, harsher edges, and flames,
and the cold flash of steel against flesh.
You smile with Your eyes, and though edges you have,
they are covered, and grow out of wood;
quietly weathered by time, wind, and flame,
does anyone know how to look?
In the nick of time,
while our backs are turned,
You walk on, clad in silence,
among tree, and world.
And as full turns to light, I look up at Your hair:
a sea of red, golden and green.
One morning, soon, I know I will wake;
colour-bright will have turned to maroon,
and further to black and the deepest of green,
white-wet glistening in between.
And smile You may (in Your eyes as they close)
as branches are taken by blade
they remind us of something forgotten almost;
though ever they carry Your name.