Moose heading home
carved from pine and painted in acrylic by Robert Margetts
Play we did in our youth,
and love we gave with no strings
attached.
Together we shared the spring—
the air fresh with evergreen mist,
pastures alive with bees
sipping nectar from morning
flowers.
Water
trickled through our toes
as frogs croaked melodiously
from green lily pads.
In spring, the hours lingered late
into night,
bringing the joy of kissing lips
that hungered for the touch of one
so innocent.
We
held each other close
and cuddled in the lies of
everlasting love,
forever beneath the watchful eye
of a tangerine moon.
One
score gone by—
my youth fluttering into the
summer wind,
yet in beauty she aged not a day.
The girl in penny loafers
shed the leather and walked as a
mother.
The
two who gave birth to a third
frolicked upon some unknown hill,
holding hands and laughing for no
reason.
It was simply summertime,
and they bathed in the translucent
light of a gracious sun.
Blue
skies that once gave birth to young goslings
flapping across an endless horizon
echoed
now with chilling winds of silence.
Autumn
leaves fell to frostbitten grass below
as the time of age kept its
course—
never hesitating, never rewinding.
Wrinkles
ran like tributaries,
and veins grew numerous upon hands
and legs.
In the fall of his life,
she stood strong beside him,
holding hands and smiling deep
beneath flickering stars.
Winter
came with promising hands,
effortlessly loosening the hinges.
To the fire it raced for warmth,
laying in wait for the final rock.
Gently
it blew upon the graying embers
that once glistened like black
coal.
In slow motion the chair—
a pendulum winding down—
rocked to the sound of crackling
wood.
The
cold quickly shrouded their aged bodies
in a nebulous fog of solace,
as the two passed together into
the night
within the home of their loving
son.
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