Scott T. Summers

And all the days of Methuselah
were nine hundred and sixty nine years,
and he died.
                     Genesis 5:27

Methuselah knew how to build a good fire,
how to scrape the scales
off a trout without bruising its flesh,
and to rise as the sun spilt
over eastern hills
because dawn was the best time
to grapple with the grief of dead sons.

Methuselah avoided stepping on ants,
understood the worth of a thick beard.
His memory pocketed friends
like specks of jasper and gypsum.
He polished them at twilight
recalling the strength of their handshakes,
the slant of their smiles.

He knew to sit patiently on tree stumps
amidst the birch and sycamores,
to munch on almonds and peer
through the wood waiting
for tomorrow to cover him like moss.

Slow and silent.
Lost to the world.
At ease with his ghosts.

Perhaps tonight, I’ll take off my shoes,
let the backyard grass seal
the gaps between my toes,
hum a song I’ve never heard,
and toss acorns at the moon.
 

Poem © Scott T. Summers 2004-2005. All rights reserved.