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The red hat

An old man beneath dripping trees at dusk,

Good overcoat, a stick, and a red hat

A red fedora

Bright as a petal

Fallen on the wet pavement

 

And Alan comes unbidden to my mind

The master of the pelargonium

His flowers glowing

Crimson through rippled glass of winter porch

His pale presence coming slow to the door

(A red fedora would not be his style)

Hobbled by painful hips and knees and back

His hand measuring the wall for support

His lambent eyes

His tender touch.

 

I think about the

Wisdom in those still nimble mottled hands

Taking cuttings every year, potting on

Nursing delicate, luminous blossoms

His gift to the future,

A legacy.

 

The red hat

makes me smile as I drive by

and Alan’s light and gentle love endure.

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1 Comment

Posted by on March 4, 2014 in Exercises, poetry

 

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