Deep Woods, 15X22, watercolor, Gary Buhler
THE OLD MAN ON THE HILL IN THE RAIN
Children don’t wait for me
to pass them a plate,
to whisper their name.
And I don’t pray
because there’s no one to pray for.
I merely placate the darkness.
Let it stain my eyes.
Life is a cold, cold well.
The bucket drops.
My voice freezes at the bottom.
It’s no accident.
I have made them
turn on their heels,
leave like a bubbling wave
down the sand.
I remember the way people sound
being happy in the distance.
I think of the years,
the flowers, the snow,
the pills in the cupboard.
Winter is rain mostly.
Through tongues of dead leaves,
the land opens its mouth
and gulps.
But it won’t take me.
How could I have ever known
I would someday be lonely.
High on the hill is a spring.
Under the visible world,
water is just beginning.
____________
John Grey