Story Time with Old Folks

I move to silent spaces where the breath stops

and listen to your lines.

The voice of primal life inside you

speaks around and through and under.

Floating in placid expectancy

to where the river slows and widens,

I am found inside the circle of your loves.

Time flows broadly by this island

of reverence and prayer and existence.

All things here are shades of gray.

I see porches on a hill, well-worn rockers,

a steeple rooted in a grove of oaks.

Corn tassels wave the day farewell

and the called cows come back home.

Barefoot boys take a creek bank by force,

and old ladies weave health into the home place.

Someone sings a song I know from somewhere.

Our people gather at a grave.

Scents of a set table warm and comfort.

Hands with veins of leather reach for mine.

The circle tightens. My soul is loosed.

Love is the only true time traveler.

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