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

tjs1040@verizon.net


    photo by the poet, Thomas J. Simms


Comments

Popular Posts