The Lookout
The Lookout
There is a man who stands on a ledge of a mountain above my home. He stands upright, straight and strong. He has medium length brown hair and green eyes with pale skin. A strong chin. If you look closely, you can see that his hairline has begun its inevitable journey of age, but just a little. The strong shoulders, powerful arms and sleek chest speak of an adventurous life lived. The humor in his eyes catches friends off guard. His smile is slightly crooked and filled with the vitality of his wisdom and compassion. His hands are large, gentle and caring. His legs resemble oak trees in their connection to the earth.
I often watch him from the living room window of my soul, measuring myself against him. Wondering. Thinking. Loving?
NO.
Respecting. Wishing.
no.
Sighing.
Sobbing.
Some days I reach out to him. I offer a cup of coffee, homemade food, the compassion? of my soul, gifts of spirit, salves for wounds of spirit and body, wisdom gleaned through ages of hardship and rejection, living and dieing, acceptance and hoping, innocence (ha) and cynicism. Simply given, expecting nothing in return. Hoping?
Maybe.
I stumble as his gentle and boisterous smile is directed at me. For a blessed moment, my soul knits together, the bleeding of my heart slows. Unbelievingly, I look behind me to see if he's really looking at me. Nobody behind me. Nobody to the side of me. Just him in front of me. Smiling. Caring. Loving?
Really?
No.
Yes.
Stumble.
Catch.
There is a man who stands on a ledge of a mountain above my home. He stands upright, straight and strong. He has medium length brown hair and green eyes with pale skin. A strong chin. If you look closely, you can see that his hairline has begun its inevitable journey of age, but just a little. The strong shoulders, powerful arms and sleek chest speak of an adventurous life lived. The humor in his eyes catches friends off guard. His smile is slightly crooked and filled with the vitality of his wisdom and compassion. His hands are large, gentle and caring. His legs resemble oak trees in their connection to the earth.
I often watch him from the living room window of my soul, measuring myself against him. Wondering. Thinking. Loving?
NO.
Respecting. Wishing.
no.
Sighing.
Sobbing.
Some days I reach out to him. I offer a cup of coffee, homemade food, the compassion? of my soul, gifts of spirit, salves for wounds of spirit and body, wisdom gleaned through ages of hardship and rejection, living and dieing, acceptance and hoping, innocence (ha) and cynicism. Simply given, expecting nothing in return. Hoping?
Maybe.
I stumble as his gentle and boisterous smile is directed at me. For a blessed moment, my soul knits together, the bleeding of my heart slows. Unbelievingly, I look behind me to see if he's really looking at me. Nobody behind me. Nobody to the side of me. Just him in front of me. Smiling. Caring. Loving?
Really?
No.
Yes.
Stumble.
Catch.