A child alone in a rocking chair
on a porch at sunrise,
watching moths and fireflies
lay down to sleep,
singing birthday songs
to the god unseen inside
the orange he holds and smells,
but will not eat,
and so he watches
the colors change,
bare feet curling, pushing,
rocking his life into the day.
The child alone walks three miles
to see his grandfather,
through thin pine woods
and silent road,
by the lake he traveled,
in awe, in search,
downtown to a store
where all the great mysteries
of kites and wind,
of candy and beef,
of gasoline and gin
joined together at the whim
of his father’s father.
So young, so yearning,
and he felt the lure,
he felt the movement
of voices he adored,
of lives he needed.
Years later, still hungry,
still on the trail,
still singing to the God
in oranges and Chinese kites,
still on the path to the store
that’s always there...
