Lamb's
wool graces his head.
It's a porch-sitting kind of day.
Invited by his metal fanned-back chair, he sits.
Only
content silver backs still enjoy the porch.
Brown eyes still sharp and bright.
Veins protrude from his lanky arms and temples.
Long
thin fingers clasp loosely in his lap, he reflects.
He
has grown accustomed to his less able body.
His small vegetable garden weeded for the day
and all the produce nurtured to ripen.
Sheets
flapping in the sunny breeze send
clean laundry smell to his nose.
His wife Vera from 50 years ago floats to him.
Eyelids
heavy, his head nods for an afternoon nap.
A pleasant memory returns to the ether
to be captured on another porch-sitting kind of day.
Copyright
Ó2000 David Ruslander
Return
to Top
