Counting Waves
An old man ravaged by age
His gangling frame impelled against the cancerous bark of the forever weeping willow
Lined with wrinkles of time, his ashen face unshaven
Cast down among creeping shadows
Folding my legs, I sit beside him, placing my hand upon his
Immalleable bones pressing against gossamer flesh
Once spry with the strength of Theseus
Lost to the land of youthful reflections
His fallen eyes gaze at hands entwined ere’ turning to the sky
“I can’t find my home”
His voice shattering
Like Autumn leaves beneath Winter’s grip
A friendless tear dares to fall from his pale eyes
Pride of unremembered years pinching the descent of others
Clinging to thin gray lashes
Vanishing as quickly as it came
“It was once here,” he whispers to the morning
“Between the Crying Tree and Briny Sea”
Built by his hands
Blessed by her heart
I search for balm to pour over his broken heart
A meaningless quest hidden in the shadows of my guilt
My words silenced by shame and regret
I sit silently beneath the Crying Tree
Reclaiming his hand, twisted fingers scrape across biting whiskers
As if the answer lies beneath his crinkly veneer
“She curled her toes in the wet sand, I stood on the edge of the sea”
“Gazing westward for a something not here”
Bristling winds steals his gravely words from my ears
Leaning closer to the graybeard man, he dwells on in the past
“She sang out to the sea, what are you doing my love?”
“Counting waves” I tendered
One for each year
He had told me before—
Many times—
He doesn’t remember
A boy and the girl together
Upon jagged rocks over the crystal bay
Watching the sea bathe the moon
Snowy gulls awaiting the new day
She whispers to the night
“What are you doing”
“Counting waves, one for each year,” he answers
“Never stop,” her breath upon his cheek
“I can’t find my home”
Words suspending the past, yielding to the present
“It was here, between the sea and the tree”
“Can you help me find my way; she’s waiting for me”
Besieged by the truth of Nevers
Truth resting on my lips
Never coming when he called
Never without an excuse to be somewhere else
A young son ravaged by rueful pangs
The pendulous canopy sways overhead
Emerald aromas faintly caressing the air
He turns from the face of the Old Man
“What are you doing?” he asks his son
“I’m counting… the times I did not come”
The old one takes my hand
“I can’t find my home…”
Copyright © Jim Hirtle | Year Posted 2021
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