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For My Children
-	Daniel Henry Rodgers

As dawn's first blush ignites the eastern sky—a cool
Caress of dew upon the breeze—and the birds' serenade
Pierces the silence, their notes ascending high.

The mist, like a spectral ballet, pirouettes, twirling
In the light. And the flowers, in their resplendent array,
Bloom, banishing the night.

My beloved, her face is like a sonnet, and our children are
Like verses that are filled with joy. As they stir from slumber's 
sweet surrender where the day's…
Promise to employ. The morning's enchanting beauty –
Compelled by the morning's majesty. Leaving behind the
Calmness I venture forth.  Drawn by its spell, past the graveyard's
Solemn serenity—where untold stories softly dwell.

Joe and Harry, two elderly caregivers with labored breathing.
A simple, empty coffin is being delicately lowered into the cold air.
Into the hill of poverty…
No mourners are there to offer a tear.
No prayers were said for the deceased’s soul.
Just a plane grave for a poor man who was so pure
And austere, for the man departed this life broken-hearted. 

"Who’s buried here?" I ask. My voice was scarcely audible over
the vast expanse. "Grey Owl," they responded, a hint of contempt
in their tones. He was a mysterious man, an enigmatic figure of
Native American descent. 
Who once resided on the outskirts of our town’s edge
in a cabin that will soon be torn down 
All in the name of progress.

Driven by curiosity, like a pigeon to its target. 
I find myself in the desolate cabin.
It is worn down and tare. Inside, I am greeted with 
a testament to the mastery of an artist.
A carver's skill— where each piece crafted with love and care. 
A chair resembling  a forest; each leg like a towering tree.
The  table adorned and etched with rivers—a wooden topiary.

An old weathered diary, worn by time reveals the story – 
Of an old man's tale of love as he poured his heart into.. 
The land, the forest, the creatures—and society's
Betrayal. His words were like a turbulent river rushing through -
The landscape of his pain and isolation. A guardian of nature
Longing to belong, yet met with relentless rejection.

His ancestors, echoes of the past, vanished like smoke
In the wind, leaving Grey Owl, the last of his line,
To a solitude unkind. The final page, a dedication:
"For My Children," it read. And I, a stranger, knelt, wept
For him, for the life he led.

Back to his grave, I knelt, the diary clutched in my hand,
And mourned for Grey Owl, the artist, the austere man—the legacy
Of the land. Returning home, I shared his story, his struggles,
His art, his life. For my children, and for my beautiful, loving wife,
His spirit does thrive.

Oh great Grey Owl, the outcast, the loner, now remembered, now revered.
Like the morning mist, your spirit lingers, even when it's cleared.
His carvings were like artistic poems that speak of life's ebb and flow—
A true testament to a life lived, a legacy that continues to grow.

"For My Children"
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