Post by waterpoor on Jul 24, 2011 15:20:40 GMT -5
Footprints of An Old Guy
Lava stones sprout thorny mesquite bushes where I sit
listening to raven wings pound decibels into the air.
Their wake stirs dusty pasts which swirl through juniper trees
to demand my attention.
Was that my youth that danced in Montana meadows
and later ducked the ugly screams of mortars
while watching men die violent deaths?
Was it me who marveled at the purple hew of my second born
squeezing his way into his own new world?
Have I left a footprint somewhere other than this breezy ridge
that marks a trek across my soul and when seen
will it contain enough humanity to cover blood stains?
Coyotes sit beside my father’s grave and howl at the glowing coals
of a rising moon. I hear his voice, still steady, still calm.
“Walk strong my son, walk strong.”
As the voice fades I climb down the hill to face days yet to come.
I can see them, though not quite before they fade.
Lava stones sprout thorny mesquite bushes where I sit
listening to raven wings pound decibels into the air.
Their wake stirs dusty pasts which swirl through juniper trees
to demand my attention.
Was that my youth that danced in Montana meadows
and later ducked the ugly screams of mortars
while watching men die violent deaths?
Was it me who marveled at the purple hew of my second born
squeezing his way into his own new world?
Have I left a footprint somewhere other than this breezy ridge
that marks a trek across my soul and when seen
will it contain enough humanity to cover blood stains?
Coyotes sit beside my father’s grave and howl at the glowing coals
of a rising moon. I hear his voice, still steady, still calm.
“Walk strong my son, walk strong.”
As the voice fades I climb down the hill to face days yet to come.
I can see them, though not quite before they fade.
