My
old
Old
father
Strolls
a cautious path
Through the
familiar public park
With
his slow
Slanted movement
As he circles
flowering beds
Grateful
for
The fidelity of spring
Like a disciple of beauty
In
rapt attention
Sinking beneath the weight
Of city noise
Uncovering
Surprising truths
At
rest in the eye of fear
Rough trunks of his companion trees
Steady his shaky hands
Spears of light find
his heart
And pierce
its heroic stance
With profound silence
Uncensored beauty
Beneath
the weight of noise
Rachel, you have such a lovely feel for metaphor and nuance. Really nice.
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