The Gait of a Man
Often I come to the window to gaze.
A man—an older man with the gray hair of a venerable story, dressed in simple, but well made clothes, worthy of a long journey on determined feet—passes down below.
His left arm slightly held bent to his side, as if once injured and never to be the same. Consistently, I glanced and he appeared.Strong, confident in his quest for strength, peace of mind—perhaps eternal well being.
Then one day he stopped appearing. Weeks. Months.
Was it my gaze no longer matched the rhythm of his gait?
Or had his time arrived and he walked straight into the bliss of aftermath?
Until one morning, he suddenly appeared.
My eyes glancing, twice, to make sure they have not fooled my desire to know.
There he was. Same clothes. Same gait.
Just a tad less of vigor, but yet the same determination.
He went away, I thought. But persisted.
Returning as the sun after days of intrepid rain soaks the earth—
as a heavy load lessens when approaching one's hearth.
Tomorrow, I will go to the window.