Where did he come from?
His early morning path
on the far side of the pecan tree
is parallel to mine.
He walks along the highway
dressed in blue
eyes straight ahead.
He doesn't see me.
I’m by his side
one step behind
the ditch between us
a soggy dividing line
between two states of being.
His bristled hair
his faded moustache
as familiar and intimate
as a bear on my childhood bed
last seen decades ago.
Doesn’t he hear me?
I see a silver cross
a blue-beaded rosary-
in his hands?
around his neck?
all in my mind?
Why on this day?
Saying his prayers,
he walks with resolution
down the road
toward the farm
as though he sees nothing else.
The leaves of the pecan tree
rise and sway
no weight, no whisper,
responsive to the smallest breath.