The hush of the day.
The slow and
steady step of night,
dawdling along
like a happy child.
The sleepy, changing
slant of light
on a pastel painted sky.
Try as you might,
in this world high on
hurry and worry,
you just can’t rush
a summer sunset.
No more,
no more.
It is gone
and lost to us now –
the how and the where and the why.
All that’s left
there in the remains of
a million Saturdays
is a listless, wondering haze
of woulds and coulds and shoulds:
the regrets of age.
And the rage,
the rage,
in flashes and waves
that the end of days
makes equal ash and bone
of both the fool and the sage.
This picture popped up on my Facebook memories earlier this week.
I’ll admit it’s not a great photo. But I remember this day well, because I’m fairly certain it was the last time I had my grandmother’s chicken and dumplings.
I was visiting my parents in southwest Virginia, and my grandmother made a batch just for me. I insisted she didn’t need to do that, that I just wanted to see her and not to trouble herself over me, but stubbornness does run in the family, and she’d already made up her mind.
Looking back on it now, I’m glad I took the picture, and glad she did trouble herself. And very glad indeed that I ate almost the whole batch.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 