April 11: Old-Fashioned

He gathers himself

grieving, still, in this 
body, the line
down through generations.

It is not ignorance that kept 
him from the doctor, but bones
ringing with memory

rippling years 
a mirror is not
the other’s gaze.

Allude to Rome.
Consider Damascus.
Line up your sentinels

along the Empire waste-line of lives.

But there is sun in the morning
and he knows the taste of spruce
tip and sap both in season.

Old-fashioned ways.

And there are wings 
whistling just beyond the reach
of things man made, but never
outside the circle of relations.

So he gathers himself, singing.

One Comment Add yours

  1. Mary-A. says:

    So difficult to put into words all that this stirs in me…. Thank you


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