The Dock

The old weathered wood squeaked,

like mice,

in a field of sun-ripened raspberries.

Early morning fog,

scented velvet aqua,

echoes of petitgrain and burgamot

surrounding the pine filtered sun,

wrapping the whole of this world

in shimmering auras of gold vellum.

The soft hush of wrought iron gates

smells of old tackle boxes,

pulled rubber that frills,

and the earthy sponge of cork.

The glassy water breaks only to reflect,

light glinting like melted aluminum,

and the copper of blades.

I see him, at the end of the dock,

still wearing flannel,

contentment found within the simplicity

of Sunday morning scrapple,

fried just right.

We let the silence sit between us,

the old steady twin flame of it,

casting lines without questions,

poles aimed at hooking tranquility.

He still calls me kid,

though gray freckles my hair,

and lines rest in corners

where crows have whispered their wisdom.

He presses a kiss to my forehead,

and slides an Indian head penny,

into my pocket,

like he never left,

welcoming me to this dock,

which has been waiting,

and I remember that love

never leaves us,

but remains whole,

so long as it is remembered.