You would think he ate nails
for breakfast, combed his beard
with barbed wire (if he combed
it at all), could bend steel with
his bare hands.
You would not think that
he writes poetry about the
snow, or for decades has
nurtured a small orchard
of sweet fruits.
His gnarled fingers look
grimed and dangerous,
but can suss out a faltering
pulse from a fainting wrist.
He hikes the mountains,
yes, conquers them
step-by-booted-step,
but stops mid-stream
to set the boots aside,
walking the water course
in bare feet to better feel
the stones.
Eventually, the plan is that
he will be buried with his
housemates in a sacred circle,
all toes pointing to the center,
with hands folded upon his
breast and his closed eyes
looking up to the bright stars.
Comments