By Thomas J. Glasco, Poet Laureate
©Sept. 2012

Autumn trees circle the library
Drop orange and red love notes.
Awareness has eyes that observe
Colorful insects and flight of avian friends.
Towering giants speak now,
I receive their transcendent thoughts
They bend to me with this plea,
Walk among us this day
A call is forthcoming.
As I hike these lovely grounds,
I glimpse a silhouette in a screened porch.

Leaves crinkle under my feet.
A young lady is raking her yard,
She stops and leans on the handle
Her eyes signal my advance,
We exchange pleasantries.
She wishes to know who I am,
I confide that I am a poet.
She asks, is this one of your books?
I give the book to her delicate hand
She turns to ”Late September”
A smile lifts her cheeks.

She speaks of her blind grandfather,
He is one hundred and two years old
The silhouette I saw earlier.
Her eyes search my face
Would you read a few poems to him
It would mean so much.
My eyes say yes,
She leads me to the porch.
Harold sits quietly, small and inward.
We share this space.
His ears lengthen their antennae
His inner vision sketches my likeness.

His heart gives a little extra to arms
That lift a century onto the threshold.
Grandpa, Mr. Glasco is a poet,
He is going to read to you.
These words bound at his feet
Land on his shoulders
Run up the walls of his mind.
Thank you he intimates as
I take his veined hand in mine.
Pointing his fingers into his chest,
For me?
His smallness, his slight form
Is a wren waiting to turn loose
First song of morning.

Silence asks me to proceed
While I read “October Ladybug”
He is sitting on air,
Contentment caresses his forehead
Smoothes his pensive face.
Beautiful beautiful, he intimates.
A leaf dances to the earth.
I listen to his heart.
We are suspended in a higher calling
Quiet moments thirst for contemplation.

I open the book to “Late September”,
A poem depicting a man and his dog
Sitting on the steps.
When I finish reading
Harold’s voice praises,
I like the tenderness.
Purity rolls from his eyes,
After a century of seeking
He knows what pleases him.
The world doesn’t need
Another man on the moon
It needs someone to speak
And another to listen.

Categories: Issue 4, Poetry | 1 Comment

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One thought on “THE LISTENING

  1. Cork

    What a powerful last sentence!

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