Dust and Dreams-A Journey
A Yellow Flower (Family)
A Yellow Flower
The boy did grasp my palm questioningly,
His bright brown eyes shining, yet dark.
We strolled amidst the echo of a Spring stream,
My spotted hand becoming strong once again,
In the shroud of his tiny fingers.
We walked silently a while, not polluting the day with questions,
That could not be answered. We found comfort in the warm air.
Part of me longed, to pull him to my chest, to protect,
This little child, from what his young eyes had seen.
A sparrow encircled the clouds, her silhouhette gray upon the
Moist grass. She landed briefly at our feet,
Flitting nervously about, as if unsure of what to do.
Much in the same way that the boy was unsure,
Of what fate meant.
He suddenly stopped, his young face glowing with innocence,
The pain in his dark eyes lightening, if only for a moment,
And I saw, enchantment there.
He ran on ahead, free of all but the newness of innocent boyhood,
And gleefully plucked a buttercup, that was craning her pretty head,
From beside a cluster of Queen Anne's lace.
His laughter was sweeter than Heaven's songs.
"Does mama like butter?", he asked like a little man.
I moved my ancient jaw, yet no words would escape.
"Does she, grampy?", he asked again, in chastity,
yet as if he himself were elderly.
We paused in front of April's stone,
Its epitaph still fresh, its surface still perfect.
"Yes," I croaked at last. "By gosh, my honey, look!
Look at the yellow flowers mama smiled on!"
I stood alongside the future, clinging deftly to my old
Wrinkled hand.
He giggled then, placing his button nose,
Above the grave's daffodils, freshly delivered.
He strained his chubby little arm,
To place the bloom beneath my chin.
"You like butter, Grampy." He said with delight,
clapping his little hands together.
"Your chin is yellow," he screeched. "It's golden!"
I replied slowly. "Just like my years, son," I finally whispered.
"Just like my years."
2002
Cristine M. DiMario
The boy did grasp my palm questioningly,
His bright brown eyes shining, yet dark.
We strolled amidst the echo of a Spring stream,
My spotted hand becoming strong once again,
In the shroud of his tiny fingers.
We walked silently a while, not polluting the day with questions,
That could not be answered. We found comfort in the warm air.
Part of me longed, to pull him to my chest, to protect,
This little child, from what his young eyes had seen.
A sparrow encircled the clouds, her silhouhette gray upon the
Moist grass. She landed briefly at our feet,
Flitting nervously about, as if unsure of what to do.
Much in the same way that the boy was unsure,
Of what fate meant.
He suddenly stopped, his young face glowing with innocence,
The pain in his dark eyes lightening, if only for a moment,
And I saw, enchantment there.
He ran on ahead, free of all but the newness of innocent boyhood,
And gleefully plucked a buttercup, that was craning her pretty head,
From beside a cluster of Queen Anne's lace.
His laughter was sweeter than Heaven's songs.
"Does mama like butter?", he asked like a little man.
I moved my ancient jaw, yet no words would escape.
"Does she, grampy?", he asked again, in chastity,
yet as if he himself were elderly.
We paused in front of April's stone,
Its epitaph still fresh, its surface still perfect.
"Yes," I croaked at last. "By gosh, my honey, look!
Look at the yellow flowers mama smiled on!"
I stood alongside the future, clinging deftly to my old
Wrinkled hand.
He giggled then, placing his button nose,
Above the grave's daffodils, freshly delivered.
He strained his chubby little arm,
To place the bloom beneath my chin.
"You like butter, Grampy." He said with delight,
clapping his little hands together.
"Your chin is yellow," he screeched. "It's golden!"
I replied slowly. "Just like my years, son," I finally whispered.
"Just like my years."
2002
Cristine M. DiMario
