On the first day of last year's spring,
no fine greenery new in the yard,
soft quake and tremble of mouth and hand
signaled a shift within his bonethin frame
small in the navy blue wing chair
pulled up close to the raucous news.
No cheery sun slanted in that morning to fill
the lonely, ordered home of an old man.
Dressed, combed, shaved, he seemed at first
like all the other days he coped and railed
against ignoble loss of strength and sight,
calling forth the memories of his wife.
My father asked to return to bed,
odd when we were there, this smart, wise
but anxious man made the final climb
up the flight of stairs, a Pan-Am pilot's
act of will on weak and wobbly legs.
The climate in the wall-papered room
chilled my heart, and sensing subtle change,
I pulled the yellow blanket over both of us.
Into his pillowed ear close to my lips
I spoke of love as he breathed again, then died.
for
Anthony Dowden Austin
November 2, 1920-March 20, 2008
Pam Austin Bourgeois
February 12, 2008
© 2008
jbf@fergus.com
Revised 5/22/2008
Dad