There was a man, a slim man,
whose head was bedecked
with a white cloud
and whose eyes saw dreams
he could not articulate.
He sat one day staring into space
and when I questioned him, he said,
`I am sitting and watching the grass grow.’
I hesitated far too long
and have lived to regret it.
I wish the courage had been mine
to have asked him
to share his dreams with me.
For he bequeathed to me
a mind that does not rest.
I have the thought that his faher
and father before him
wrestled the same misty vision
which now is mine to set in motion.
I question this strange bequest,
for I have not
the staunch heart required
to lay to rest my ancestor’s anguish.
Papa, I plead now,
to replace my heart with hot ore,
inject me with a vial
of celestial courage
and fuse my spine with tempered steel.
There is so little time.