He said the waterfall’s coming
When it rained for days and weeks become years
Aged on the face of an old man
Drinking alone
The front porch and gardened lawn
Forged in the southern sun and dusty roots
Wrapped and trite
His beard-
The vines on the majestic falls
Entwined with the moss below
A slippery stone
A fish that escaped the net
A woman bathing in the pooling water below
When growing old sometimes might be slow
It sure can be beautiful
Like the blade of grass that holds its morning dew
