Post by jeannerené on Nov 9, 2008 13:33:58 GMT -8
The fathers' winter path . . .
As I begin my autumn, I see their footsteps spent ahead of mine.
My fathers turn and look backward, resting on their winter path.
They give a melancholy wave, and smile at me now, pensively.
"You walk alone from this point on. Enjoy the colors of the season."
A sundown walk, past his house
I have glanced before.
A pristine lawn, trimmed and tidy,
adorned in patriotic praise,
little red, white, blue tributes
speak his mind.
Garden windmill miniatures,
amid posy flowers bright.
And he,
the old man,
sitting customarily
on a garden plastic seat.
I summon my fathers on their winter walk. Not yet is the time, sirs?
"We stand by the side of our precipice, daughter, with no call to walk,
But stay and talk with us this while, and consider our moment.
Let us offer you one last banquet and a toast to the occasion."
I fashioned a private smile,
as he rose to fiddle with a flag askew.
After all the chances forsaken
it was time to say hello.
"Cooled down, finally," I risked.
A soft, sweet, southern voice
returned with a smile,
"Yes, it's real nice, now."
My steps kept their pace,
but his neighborly door now opened,
he keenly invited me in.
His slow, but sure step
inched in a direction toward me
"Other day, my flags were stolen.
My daughter went and bought
me some new ones."
"I'm sorry to hear that.
Must have been some kids."
"Funny, been here since 1962,
never had a thing stolen."
There was no anger,
just a simple observation.
Is it so deserted on your winter path, that you often look back?
"This path is forged by yesterday's scattered seeds and we must harvest."
An hour slipped by
of cool evening, sidewalk talk,
of far away daughters and sons,
love found amid war, and
coupled fifty-eight springs.
And again of war ... a father's war,
a son's war... and grandson's
mid sacrfice and doubt,
of measures witnessed,
and long to be forgotten.
And as the evening wanes -
of the town grown to a city,
the childhood missed,
and the living of eighty-four years,
within the Grace of God.
His still ever blue eyes
spoke of so much more to be said,
and of not wanting to be passed by
with the evening sundown.
And now I weep as my fathers traverse their definitive days,
Remembering they held my hand as I stood up from my crawl.
Lessons learned, good and ill, were written with their words.
They'll pass all, as he, who's child I am, passed slowly in the night.
"When you walk by this way"
he smiled, "please say hello."
-------------------
Dedicated to the memory of my dad, Eugene W. Rose, my father-in-law, Dwight W. Watson and to my neighbor, Mr. McClure.
jeanne rene 7.03-11.08
As I begin my autumn, I see their footsteps spent ahead of mine.
My fathers turn and look backward, resting on their winter path.
They give a melancholy wave, and smile at me now, pensively.
"You walk alone from this point on. Enjoy the colors of the season."
A sundown walk, past his house
I have glanced before.
A pristine lawn, trimmed and tidy,
adorned in patriotic praise,
little red, white, blue tributes
speak his mind.
Garden windmill miniatures,
amid posy flowers bright.
And he,
the old man,
sitting customarily
on a garden plastic seat.
I summon my fathers on their winter walk. Not yet is the time, sirs?
"We stand by the side of our precipice, daughter, with no call to walk,
But stay and talk with us this while, and consider our moment.
Let us offer you one last banquet and a toast to the occasion."
I fashioned a private smile,
as he rose to fiddle with a flag askew.
After all the chances forsaken
it was time to say hello.
"Cooled down, finally," I risked.
A soft, sweet, southern voice
returned with a smile,
"Yes, it's real nice, now."
My steps kept their pace,
but his neighborly door now opened,
he keenly invited me in.
His slow, but sure step
inched in a direction toward me
"Other day, my flags were stolen.
My daughter went and bought
me some new ones."
"I'm sorry to hear that.
Must have been some kids."
"Funny, been here since 1962,
never had a thing stolen."
There was no anger,
just a simple observation.
Is it so deserted on your winter path, that you often look back?
"This path is forged by yesterday's scattered seeds and we must harvest."
An hour slipped by
of cool evening, sidewalk talk,
of far away daughters and sons,
love found amid war, and
coupled fifty-eight springs.
And again of war ... a father's war,
a son's war... and grandson's
mid sacrfice and doubt,
of measures witnessed,
and long to be forgotten.
And as the evening wanes -
of the town grown to a city,
the childhood missed,
and the living of eighty-four years,
within the Grace of God.
His still ever blue eyes
spoke of so much more to be said,
and of not wanting to be passed by
with the evening sundown.
And now I weep as my fathers traverse their definitive days,
Remembering they held my hand as I stood up from my crawl.
Lessons learned, good and ill, were written with their words.
They'll pass all, as he, who's child I am, passed slowly in the night.
"When you walk by this way"
he smiled, "please say hello."
-------------------
Dedicated to the memory of my dad, Eugene W. Rose, my father-in-law, Dwight W. Watson and to my neighbor, Mr. McClure.
jeanne rene 7.03-11.08
