Sitting alone on this porch , feeling the sound of every bird that must live in this sky, and find a landing place in each one of these trees that surround me.
Watching the dogs, as they lay down in the freshly cut grass, and grab what seems to be the first real sunshine, the first or second warmth of the spring, bodies full out, their legs peaking and their heads lying on a patch that holds them perfectly.
There’s a breeze that is blowing, all around. Not enough to be a wind, but enough to capture the neighbors glass or metal music box, hanging from a porch you can’t see, but hearing it’s jingling, playing its individual notes of solace.
The middle of the day. The middle of the week. A glass of fresh ice-water with little kisses of melting droplets careening down the side, feeling the tumult of it all.
Tears, from my eyes, wet and flowing, down my face and into my beard, with out a weeping sound, piling up, one on another, cooling my cheeks beneath the white beard that protects my face, and pooling there, they continue to fall.
There is no reason, none at least that I know, or can figure out where the sadness comes from, if sadness it is indeed. For my eyes have not seen the glory sought. My eyes have been covered when the misfortunes of earth have abounded. The comfort of time turning, the days past that have grown dimmer with times movement, are mine.
Rest my head, and make it sound once more, and don’t let my face reveal the way my heart apparently feels. Keep the tears inside, I once said, now just let me cry alone .
Ralph Peck
Photography by Marla Bolton
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