He stands wobbly-knee in a dark room,
Aging face gone wrinkled with the years,
His clothes worn down to the cotton bone
From his life’s trade — plough and a horse,
Bottom land crops lay seeded in his hands;
A telescope lens fuses his past with his present.
Stars and moon enter his failing sight, a hazel pair
Fresh leaved out in birth, Come, my child,
You shall be our son,
In sickness and in health. The father looked at each
Most dear, all to each other; You shall be fit for
A farmstead. Slowly he spun the thread.
I see an orchard coupled by apple branches,
Intertwined with fruit and bees
Springing buds in the bee house,
Thriving days — crops increased in the soil,
And rain blindly gutted the drinking barrels;
He fixed his eyes in the star center, engraved mind.
Hardship then, their small price paid, the wedded ones
Walked forth into the dead air, he braved,
Church curse to kin — the crooked oath, they
Shriveled like cinders at the fire source,
Love blazing hearts to an end, earth’s ever green;
He focused on the half moon squatted in a sky.
God’s work stood anchored in a glare, night’s black
So a beggar might aim a look at time’s core,
Stalwart to a life — to this house of stone and sand;
Whatever trials to come echoed in his words,
And grinning fierce at death’s head, would live by
Wits alone. Stars ever bright to a minion.
Copyright © 12/12/17 lance sheridan®