Bless his half-empty head,
his hand that held
the Phillips screwdriver
he lost in my yard
behind the hedge.
Bless the way he topped the trees,
the way he wanted them to be
perfect Grant Wood blow-pops.
Each day they show him sorrow:
peeling, sawed-off trunks,
severed necks above.
And bless the sound of his footsteps
on the ceiling at three a.m.,
the distant hiss of water, sounds
of him home from a trip
I’m sure went badly—traffic
and insolent weather,
forgotten skis and a flat
on Donner Pass—
but bless him anyway, home,
his gentle thumps of night,
the trail of creaks
leading off to his safe,
unmade bed.
The character sketch, the images evoked...I read it through multiple times and enjoyed it more each time. Well written. Well chosen words, "insolent weather...gentle thumps of night" among my favorites.
ReplyDeletesmiles...you say much of him in this...but also much of you as well...love the sounds of him upstairs in the last bit there....and that you bless him al the way through...
ReplyDeleteI enjoy this piece a lot, spoken with an extremely kind, observant and mature heart. The world needs more carers!
ReplyDeleteThis is fabulous! A brilliant character sketch framed by a beatific irony.
ReplyDelete