I look in the mirror
at the tussled white hair
and lined face
at the body bend a bit at the shoulders
as if carrying the weight
of the pain that
rules each day
and dominates each night
through the fog
I hear his voice
his deep laughter
and see that behind his tri-focals
often lost
the blue eyes still twinkle
a little life
and mischief rest there still
and yet the great weariness
covers his being like
a shroud
and each day begins with a ritual
of moving up from a place
not of rest
but of stagnation
a ritual
built out of a resolve to make it through
one
more
day
and so my
father looks at me
through the foggy glass
he is here
in so many ways
he is
me
------------------------------
Lord this day
help me put one foot in front of the other
and break through the fog
and engage
with those who come my way
No comments:
Post a Comment