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.
off the asphalt into the night.
Another one to treasure and appreciate Bob! Pam
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