Gentle as All.


Submitted by Ben Gerome

From Papa’s old armchair, from his weather-worn porch,
Time passes softly, gentle as all.

I could blink through the sunlight, but days may pass by.
I could nap in the moonlight, by months may slip past.
A reverie a decade; a dream something longer.

Tobacco and a breeze as bitter as his coffee.
A hearty laugh and skin as golden as his wheat.

Somewhere in it all, he’s still here.
Denim and callouses.
Somewhere in it all, it isn’t lost on me.
Not anymore.

Photo credit: Edward Hopper – Clamdigger

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