filters the morning sun
gold upon his lovely cheeks
His coffee cup trembles
as he sips and tells me the same old stories
for the first time
I nod and bear
the significance like a custodian sworn
and consider the meaning of my own pallid life
What does it mean
to leap from a bridge
shamed and impoverished as the land lay wasting
And tormented for quilted coats
and shoes wrapped with desperation
and binder twine
Or light a cigarette
for a friend torn and bleeding at your feet,
a farm boy who would die a man?
He argues with my mother
over toast and saskatoon berry jam
about things that do not matter
Yet their banter is a comfort
that I have known all my life,
back and forth like woodsmen sawing
They have lost everything
except themselves and a tender love
born from the grace of elders
I listen to him in the evening
and watch my mother
serve up a second piece of pie
No comments:
Post a Comment