Old Jake
A wind slowly caresses the ridge line.
Southern pine cones rock in the tree.
A local whippoorwill is keeping time.
The old cricket: He chirps a bit off key
The cabin: time weathered and worn;
old Jake: his singing is in the same boat.
He sings, nonetheless, all rusty, forlorn
like a patched tire tube only half afloat.
Nice: the small acts giving us pleasure.
I guess, caused from one’s vision of life.
While old Jake is no college professor:
His totem, the red bird, guides his life.
in the plot of life we all have our place
sanctioned by gifts of nature and grace
This is for my friend Joe, who died
this week. I am sure he’s somewhere in
time laughing and secretly longing to
respond. Joe was a college professor, a
Christian, a good man, father, and friend.
Sunday Jan 17, 201
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