here's a poem about the way my great uncle can tell a story. |
Sitting in an old kitchen chair, Listening to stories he's told A hundred times, I notice his eyes begin to dance. His face is etched with lines, That tell a thousand tales of Where he's been. His voice, Full of excitement, Takes up the whole room. And suddenly, I'm not in my chair. The walls open up Into a warm summer day. I hear the roaring of the mighty Mississippi, Or the song of the hound, Fresh on a trail. I smell the new cut lumber In his daddy's sawmill. I feel the wind on my face As I ride down the highway going 120, On a motorcycle. I feel the wonder As I see for the first time A color television. My heart aches a little At the thought of how loyal His little beagle was, Even til her last breath. I'm right there with him As he pulls catfish out of the water That are bigger than me. And I begin to understand What it's like to plow a field from dawn to dusk. The room begins to come into focus. I'm back in my chair again. But I'm left in amazement At how much I can see Through the blind eyes of the man Sitting across from me. He laughs and sighs, As if remembering one last time, And then if no one stops him, He begins again. |