When others give you a gift that resonates...

Today, I had the priviledge to receive an old-school composition book. The person that offered it to me indicated in their note that I should use this book to write, just write. She said to put your thoughts in it-- anything that came to mind. She asked that I take 15 minutes of each day to leave a thought within its leaves. I will take her up on this request. Thinking out loud an artist friend of mine once said, " freedom without discipline, is neither freedom nor discipline." How right he was. I am here by the grace of my Maman and Papa and this writing is for them;

The Cold Rain
(Homage to my Maman&Papa)

He came to occupy
a certain, curtain-call realism.
The cold driving– without reason
nor season–
inevitable, rain
that slants
...and slogs
and does not seem to refrain
nor cease...had arrived.
He was ‘knee deep’
in it, sans parapluie.
Papa began to see (and believe)
in the setting sun.
Maman was not sure had day
ended or just yet begun?
In the collective dementia (hers), and ours,
aging sneered&shook its sinister cower.
And, the cold, harsh rain fell...
Inestimable the tears,
and memory lost the years.
Hardened, like rain forest teak
he remained the stoic one– though
outlook bleak–
his roots well dug.
...And aware he was the cascade
that befalls
and descends,
unrepentant,
upon them...