A poem I wrote on my birthday ...
You come to me across the grass
my 7 year old grandson on
the morning of the dawning of my 72nd year
your weeding tools in hand
you ask, grandpa, is it time to do garden work
I follow you to the weeds grandma
has assigned us,
weeds that we must beat, tear and coax
from the soil, but in the end
being men, we will merely cut them
back to imagine we will clear them
once again when next they attack
with mighty strokes you build
paths around the rhododendrons
while I work closer to the old
trunks that the turning seasons
have shaped
seems the melody of time
that changes seasons
and tunes the buds to blossoms
also wrinkles my skin
droops my eyelids
and sends winter certain as
an archer's arrow to bend
my knees
but your earnestness
and quick laughter reminds
that life is forever
a child's happy answer
and wrinkles can be taught to say
our lives are best lived
as child's play
So let us blaze playful trails to
heroism, discovery, and beauty
until we still both will and breath
in deference for all that has made
and sustained us
for all those who have loved us
and who we love
blessed reverence
for the wind
that lifts light into life
and life into light
that we might know
ourselves and simply cherish
one another
Posted by Jon Madian on Apr 10, 2013
On Apr 11, 2013 Bela Shah wrote:
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