I saw him Sundays walk the narrow path.
Oh, he would gently pull a lilac to his face,
Or watch a cardinal splash red upon the sky.
Or he would listen to the glory of some whistled joy,
Or deeply draw the air.
But always his feet stayed upon the path
And into the gloom and artificial light
Within the red church door they carried him.

And I would laugh
And bat at butterflies
And dance with merry feet
In the sun dappled stream.
I chose the light.

But one dark morning,
Chill with cold rain,
I followed him into the gloom,
Where, sitting under incandescent bulbs,
I heard a word.
And in that light,
For my first time,
I saw light.

mike frank
© 2006



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