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.