Saturday, August 15, 2015
Out Among the Raspberries
A poet crowding forty muses on old age
But this one does not worry his aging loves,
His grandfather's image in the garden rows
Speaks the peace of the advancing years,
Each passing sun was but a step to final rest
Old slouch hat and holey sweater,
Gumboots and hands wrinkles
And always a voice leveled against tomfoolery.
He went so quietly into that good night
He talked to me, in peace, before he went.