booksartyoume

'Only a mist' timothy r. gates, 09/26/2005

It rains.
Only a mist,
rests upon my face,
never disrupts my path,
causes me to smile;
in this embrace, I know;
I know that I love this baptism.
I'm a four year old,
without any answers,
without any questions that demands any.
I'm a six year old,
in love, giving and receiving my first kiss,
not from my family.
Some kisses, still cause me to smile.
I'm four, six, seven, maybe eight, years old,
sitting on my father's lap,
playing Guitar,
singing my father's Country melodies.
I'm eleven,
sketching, painting,
thrilled with it all,
not yet following any said rules.
I'm much older,
my beloved Grandfather's blessed repose arrives,
I sob, weep, laugh off and on,
for twenty minutes;
then I smile. I still feel him near,
like when I was one, two, three, four.
(Yes, I remember, not words, but his face
through the bars of my crib.
His face, of pride,
looking down at me in the stroller.
His hands reaching for me,
picking me up to show me something
he thought magnificent.
His old slouch hat,
only removed to shade my tiny face.
No Polaroid's exist.
His face does.)
I'd awake in the night to see him sleeping
on the floor, next to my bed,
making sure his grandson was safe.
In this embrace, I know;
I know that I love this baptism.