Thursday, January 03, 2013

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

Two bongo players
about his age
and black as his shirt,
struck a harmony of rhythms
he could not ignore.

The sun reflected
on his face emanated
the happiness of an old
freedom-song recaptured.

For a brief moment,
he eluded winter,
but soon it would be time
to return to the retirement house
and dream about a good
dance partner.

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