Monday, August 20, 2012


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


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

1 comment:

  1. Rachel, you have such a lovely feel for metaphor and nuance. Really nice.