The Cost of TIme
They
say it was premature, his white hair,
but
it seemed he always had it.
I
cannot remember my Grandfather any other way.
He
never seemed too tired to engage with the children,
in
the wisdom of games at play,
and
his passion to help all things grow never diminished.
With
only a little effort I can recall
the
soft, pale-blue haze of an ever-present White Owl
drifting
in currents of air above his head.
Even
now the scent stirs emotions and visions
that
scurry through my being.
Closing
my eyes, I can see his brown suit jacket
draped
over the handle of a garden spade,
white
shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow.
I
see his hand raised with two fingers extended,
and
touching his brow just below the brim of his cap,
he
would wave to me in a lazy salute.
How
young we all must have been,
without
realizing the cost of time.
There
were fewer choices to be made then,
and
things did seem simpler.
How
did growing older become so complex?
His
muddy boots are gone now
from
next to the greenhouse door,
and
the coal furnace has grown cold.
How
long has it been
since
things were new and innocent
and
spring smelled fresh and clean?
Now
that no one calls me “Captain” anymore,
I
wish I had watched him just a little longer.
*****
Poem by,
Thomas J. Simms
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