My Father's Hands

Sprung steel, now brittle paper covered
wisdom folded in a finger’s grasp,
thumbs twiddle, keeping time at bay.

Little white church claims the wooded knoll cedar shrouded.
A solitary bell calls him to be seated in creaking oak pews,
worn hymnals simmer in their own paper musk.
Window-stained light falls on,
on to the floor.

His neck now pivots, head erect,
grayed granite cradled in a starched collar,
speech echoing from faceless eyes.
his words now caught in the pained streams!

Why must today go just to spite my efforts?
A warmed hearth, a phrase from the window
my vision now kept close to consciousness.
its focus is but a thinned yellow light,
and its spirit will change that color tomorrow!

Letters and shades, words and darkness,
primary colors fading to nothing but pale shades of slate.
Help me stay here, to be there,
by warmed ashes,
now cooling too fast.

Paris R Masek II