Often I feel like the youngest
in an eternal kindergarten, then
an ancient oak tree will turn toward me
suddenly as windswept and familiar
as a younger brother.
Old men smile like children,
their faces are snapshots of my son
as a boy, a teenager, a man.
Any mother could be my mother
or daughter depending upon stance, glance,
the way kindness is sheltered or exposed
in her bosom.
A cat warming itself in the sun
looks like an old flame---still not out.
A groundhog reminds me of a roving uncle
a black sheep coming home.
Parents come back as offspring
friends as small birds
that sing of things too great
for small birds to understand.
I look upon my cousin Mort
being led by a child
down a street on a leash.
I look upon this nursery for giants
and I know
that I have read this story before.
It is the tale of the kinder.
The wide eyed kinder
who rear us every day as their own
while we live among them
as strangers.
(C) Eric Ashford May 08