Young Boy Becoming



Remembering back when…

I pulled the last remaining scallions
rendering a garden bare,
the ground becoming cold, spent,
awaiting my father’s adieu ‘til spring..

What was remaining of the summer/fall farewell
of maple leaves glimmering in the foothills,
gave an extra flutter as migrating birds vanished
toward seasonal changes urging their flight.

Back then…

Few words were spoken
as I walked beside my father,
his hand cupped around my shoulder
our noses taking in the sweet plum scent
of nectar seeping from the orchard’s remaining crop.

Father’s early rheumatism beckoned we sit,
his grimace at times like the wrinkled sadness
of the over-ripe fruit littering the ground,
his sigh akin to Nature’s often tired release
of today’s waning of life making room
for tomorrow’s continuance.

Seventy years later…

I dreamed of seeing him again,
beneath that tree of remembrance,
our backs to the tree,
our shared silence as pristine beneath
closed eyes now as then.

Amidst the nocturnal dusty attic of long ago,
I lay down beside his gift of love
that came in such inordinate ways.

I begin awakening as the call of migrating birds returning
reminds me I am still that young boy becoming…