|Poet, Writer, Editor|
JulyThe breeze was a tender thing;July by riparii
he was glistening and nut brown.
The grass sank before his blade
He cut a wider arc than mine-
I watched his muscles slide
in swing and stride;
grass fell before and to the side.
Two dogs dripped, panting beneath the trees.
Blades shushed with every pass, till all was done.
With the field set low in the heavy afternoon,
we swallowed fear, we raised our eyes.
Your Song"So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do" -Your Song by RichardLeach
I never forgot hearing that in the operating room
before the surgery on my fractured hip socket
when I was twenty-nine. My eight-month old son
cried at the sight of me when my wife brought him
to the hospital; my face was cut and sutured
and there were bits of windshield glass in my skin.
Today he is almost twenty-nine and I sit
beside him in an orthopedic surgeon's waiting room,
his ankle in a cast, his crutches on the chair arm.
Surgery was a week ago. The trauma was from
a basketball game rather than a car crash,
and to an Achilles tendon rather than a hip. His wife
is away so I have brought him, there is music
playing in the waiting room and here it is again:
"My gift is my song and this one is for you."