The Pledge

I want the hand to be there always
like a warm maternal trunk
with its network of nerves
when the group pauses
on the hot savanna trails
to caress the ancestral bones
in memoriam to ivory clicks
the head bumps of lives
slow and passionate
and their dust baths.

Only a few special ones
will overcome the parched
plains of grief, the purple hues
that lead on the horizon
so they tread the trails
with solemn bun-dough feet
seasons that always turn
like the willow-wand ribs
lingered long over before
some stronger need triumphs
over mammalian loss.