My shoe box has filled up with days
a hill of pages, stacked in reams
while I on top
look back on youth
from traveled age.
The cord, I feel, is growing thin
the process has long since begun
when heaviness to soil consigned
gravely planted for a Son to find
my waiting breath then carried up
wrapped about with every page
remembered,
to wait through my long cold December
in that presence I have longed to see
with friends to wait for every spring
I once, so many years ago
was born with skin,
and will yet wake
a child - and a man,
with my children all around me.
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