Painting by Norman Rockwell
Driving my Parents Home at Christmas
As I drive my parents home through the snow
their frailty hesitates on the edge
of a mountainside.
I call over the cliff
only snow answers.
They talk quietly
of hauling water of eating an orange
of a grandchild's photograph left behind last night.
When they open the door of their house
they disappear.
And the oak when it falls in the forest
who hears it through miles and miles of silence?
They sit so close to each other¡
as if pressed together by the snow.
Robert Bly
Posted over on Shigeku
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