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John W Flood
There is the date March 18, 2003,
Past the Ides of March, you see.
And it is raining, dropping drops,
Continues raining with no stops.
Grandson plays with his Palomino,
Plastic horse, making the main toss so,
While the rain continues to fall,
Splattering on the hard cement and all.
Are there giant streams down WahKahn's
face,
How can we know about his unseen grace,
While the rain remains there it is true,
Washing about our mind, it will do.
Smell the fragrance of rain soaked earth
Grand children dream of Grandfather, his mirth,
So it is as we travel on along that endless road
Knowing not of his or anyone's level load.
His was a gift like the otter who is
sacred,
Playing on though ninety-two, no dread,
The sparkle of his eyes couldn't be drugged, then,
Neither could they kill his youthful grin.
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