Thursday, December 23, 2010

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.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Blog Archive

Followers


Typying