as a boy
i would

run the wind
swim the ocean

until the strand
was a pitching distant dream

i would
climb branch

after branch
until the curve

of the world
was my own

as a boy
i would think

nothing
of doing

these things
as a man

i can think
of nothing

else

teeter
          as we do

                         upon tightropes
                         wishing for wings
                         or puppet strings

carom
           as we do

                         down lightless streets
                         impatient with prayer
                         to get us there

stood before
the gathering sea

face to face
how it beckoned me

and when at last
i turned away

the sea was colored
charcoal grey

these
are braided days

leaves delicate
weaves

of last color
quick ribbons

of snow
tangled

through the grey fingers
of trees

and tie themselves
to me

what of this rain
                             cold
upon the leaf last free

what of this leaf
                             gold
upon a goldless tree

for once
to let them

both be
me

his hands

two pieces of wood
gnarled worn torn
by the wind
and the rain
and the sun

his eyes

two dark marbles
of laughter
of sadness

his voice

deep
soft
ancient

i almost did not understand him

how are you this morning i asked

can’t grumble sir no sir can’t grumble