Who can plumb the alchemy
how their separate visages
began to coalesce alike
across the quiet breakfast table
through the evening kitchen chores
into the selfsame silhouette?
It was as if a mystic wrist
was patiently at work on both
with a single brush and palate.
The sharpness of his brow receded
with the lacing of her ways
surrounding his horizon,
and his lips broke more often
with the Eden freshness of her smile.
Even the arc of her determined cheeks
defined the spray of his own temple lines.
Most of all when looks locked
their eyes sparked the same blue flame
that opened up the universe to heaven
to the place where they were one.
So the young man surfaced in the north
growing daily more enchanting
in the milieu of his motherís grace
transformed by the numinous fusion
of her comely flesh and steely faith.
And when he strode from
his footsteps crossed the sky
like no other print upon the earth.
Jerome L. McElroy
†† *Accepted in Penwood Review (Spring 2009)