Some Things About an Old Man
An old man walks like a church bell down an old road.
He has done nothing, yet his body could be the mountains.
He is poor, a polished mirror.
He walks like a diamond through the town where he grew up.
He walks through stretched out memories.
Something circles around him, like light around an oil lamp,
but it is the eighty years of his heart turning its wheel.
The old man will gather clouds out of himself.
In the corners of his life there is such lightness things become each other.
He is a daydreamer who walks around and turns up somewhere.
He is a good man, badly dressed and full of holidays.
The old man remembers love and the folds of rain.
He would refuse a secret victory. He is waiting for someone
as the leaves of a tree wait for morning light, openly and ordinarily.
This old man is young, and thinks of reflections in water as lilies.