Seventy Eight

Seventy Eight

He was about mother’s age and

stature when she died four years ago;

stout and short but graceful,

with the buoyancy of fresh foxglove

bursting forth in summer.

He’d hang a hammock and

go for a walk on the beach.

Wading to his hips as his feet 
pressed the wet sand; 
salt seasoned the expression 
of joy on his face.

Two bongo players

about his age,

black as his shirt,

struck a harmony

of rhythms

he could not ignore.

The sun reflecting

on his face emanated

the happiness of an old

freedom-song recaptured.

For a brief moment,

he eluded winter.

Soon it would be time

to return to retirement

and the hammock,

dream about a

good dance partner.