the slow squeaking
of evening scratches.
his voice is timelessness
and wisdom.
a soothing of his years
and greying hair.
reminders falling simply
in a surrounding of
his generous motions.
I speak, bringing glowing
to his eyes.
and I know that I am his wonderful.
(an elation in time and in my existence.)
endings finding themselves meaningless,
in a beginning brimmed with
aspiration and smiles.
the squeaking finds my ears again.
my mind travelling to the hard wood
of floors covered in layers.
a rest and renewal.
the past finds circling in the present
as warmth encourages a future.

© Nettie Bozanich

[previously published in “Muse Apprentice Guild.”]

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