News of a passing breeze reaches me —
One that floats, and swirls, and whisps peacefully
One that rustles old trees that glow golden in the late evening sunbeams.
My ears tense as they wait, listening expectantly
I hear footsteps approaching, they groan and they squeak rhythmically
And fall slow and heavy on the concrete.
The young children start giggling —
Their soft chatter goes up into the air as if tangling
With the quickly dimming ashes, floating and dancing.
I tense once again, this time more fearfully
For something I’m scared to believe —
Something called gravity.
I’m watching and waiting and listening half expecting
That piercing screams will soon be reaching me.
The air remains still, just gently blowing —
The giggles of children still rhythmically going.
The squeaking has stopped —
Grandpa is seated.
I hear his voice breaking into the flow of my thoughts and I pause —
to listen.
“There’s a passing breeze,” he begins to speak,
“But it’s peaceful and doesn’t concern me.
no use spending out all my anxiety.”
He is breathing ever so deeply —
And I watch him with growing envy.
Now the fire is dancing on his worn and stretched face —
Sunbeams are swallowed by shadow —
And so gone is the day —
All the time that I’ve wasted with tasteless anxiety.
He peers up at the stars and slowly makes a remark,
“It’s a wonder those things are still smiling down on me.”
He has lived all his days.
And he loves what each gave.
All the good and the bad —
To him, wonderfully great.
He was never once lacking —
Nor filled with anxiety.
He has always been peaceful and still —
He is breathing.
But yet —
Not simply breathing.
He is completely, undoubtedly,
Unmistakably happy.