gentle, like the scenic route
that was never meant to compete with faster traffic.
He walks-- rather, meanders-- in no hurry,
huddled like an unintentional question mark,
stooped by the weathering forces of years well-lived.
I love his smile...
I cannot bring to mind what it looks like
but that it was accidentally genuine,
genuinely sweet and made the heart swell--warmed--
and hot air rises upward
where hope is.
He reads us poetry,
and tells us to read to each other,
and I often am lulled to sleep,
safe in his sanctuary;
a classroom with invisible stained glass through which the wintry sun streams
prisms of light, and words,
and I can be so small,
and so safe.
Did he know that my heart crumpled and wept
at his mercy?
To think with my heart and write with colored dust and water and the inspiration of instinct;
analysis can starve abundance from life,
much as reflection brings us closer to it.
He was kindness to my heartbreak,
An adopted grandfather when I was an orphan of loneliness.
That year I knew of love's austere and lonely offices,
but what he knew too
made all the difference.
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