The final hugs had been given, final pictures were snapped,
Final words that assured 'next time' would come;
But like the sun to the eyes of a man who'd been blind
It suddenly struck him that his race had been run.
There were no words to be spoken, only long, strong embraces
Between the grown son and his aged father.
If he didn't let go, perhaps he wouldn't have to die;
Perhaps death, just this one time, would not bother.
Behind them his grandchildren threw leaves on the fire
And poked sticks into a mole's hole,
As he wept on his son's neck for his joys and regrets,
The muddy waters rushing o'er his soul.
His posterity left him, calling their sincere goodbyes,
And he shuffled slowly towards the river.
A mourning dove's call proclaimed the brevity of it all,
And his sad smile began to quiver.
He remembered sunny days when his own boys were little,
Running up and down the wet sand bar,
While he fished, and he scolded, and sat watching his poles,
Never one thought of it coming this far.
The grey man now stood on the river's high bank,
Leaning heavily on his well worn cane;
The swirling muddy waters rushing onward as he wept,
His breast filled with his epiphany's pain.
