Out as an Elder in June

Athens, Georgia
June 2018

I like to take a neighborly hike 

in the guise of an old man 

grasping a crooked walking stick 

with just a hint of a gimpy hip.

I am out before the heat, 

huffing up sunlit hills, 

passed by young runners 

and mothers rolling strollers.

They nod in my general direction, 

smile past the half-seen elder.

We share the same street 

but live in different worlds.

I walk as much in memory 

as in the searing moment.

I slip through years, 

misplace whole decades.

I zig-zag through shadows 

and pause in a pool of shade. 

A warm breeze sifts the mimosa 

and I breathe its pink sweetness. 

I study the borders of ragged lawns 

telling sumac from senna,

cats-ear from dandelion, 

wild petunia from woodland phlox.

A low drone fills the distance. 

The sun is high on my back 

as I saunter home through the green 

aroma of fresh-mown grass.

On the other side of sunset, 

I watch a field full of fireflies 

tracing seductive J-shaped loops 

as signs of love in the failing light. 

In the spell of affection, I nudge 

a young copperhead with the tip 

of my stick. He coils, then flows 
off the asphalt into the night.

Walking stick

Sumac