For My Children
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 a sonnet; our children, verses
Of joy, stir from slumber's sweet surrender, the day's
Promise to employ. Compelled by the morning's majesty,
I venture forth, drawn by its spell, past the graveyard's
Solemn serenity—where untold stories dwell.
Two caretakers—Joe and Harry, with breath misted
In the chill—lower a coffin, unadorned and solitary,
Into a pauper's hill. No mourners to shed a tear,
No prayers whispered for the soul departed. Just a grave,
Fresh and austere, for the man who left broken-hearted.
"Who lies here?" I ask. My voice, a mere echo
In the vast expanse. "Grey Owl," they say, with voices
Tinged in disdain. A native man, an enigma, living
On the outskirts of our town, in a cabin, soon
To be rubble, as progress tears it down.
Curiosity, like a pigeon, guides me to that cabin,
Desolate, wear, and tare. Inside, a testament to a master
Carver's skill—each piece crafted with care. A chair,
Carved like a forest; each leg, a towering tree.
A table, etched with rivers—a wooden topiary.
A weathered diary unveils the old man's tale
Of love for the land, the forest, the creatures—and society's
Betrayal. His words, a turbulent river rushing through
The landscape of his pain and isolation. A man
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.
Grey Owl, the outcast, the loner, now remembered, now revered.
Like the morning mist, his spirit lingers, even when it's cleared.
His carvings, like silent poems, speak of life's ebb and flow—
A testament to a life lived, a legacy that continues to grow.
"For My Children"
Copyright ©
Daniel Henry Rodgers
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