A smiling wrinkled sailor sits placidly on the porch,
on a splintered wooden rocker, facing towards the North.
To the East the sun will rise, each morning a new day.
To the West the sun will set, shining a final orange ray.
Each morning, each evening, he glides in his chair,
While a warm southern breeze, ruffles thick silver hair.
But the sailor is lost, in a world all his own,
For he lost precious eyesight, while far from his home.
“But that isn’t so bad”, he says with a grin that is cheerful.
For without eyes to cry I simply cannot be tearful.
So instead he hears the sunset, he can smell it in the air.
The calm of sacred silence, that echoes far and near.
He feels the sun’s soft rays stroke his skin of leather,
As he waits for his old mate,
the sun,
in any kind of weather.
He feels the shivers of the dew.
It ushers out the old day, and calls in the new.
He feels the sun is setting, he nods a last goodbye.
For he doesn’t know if tomorrow morn, the sun,
for him, will rise.
He lives in inky-blackness, but still rejoices, not surprising.
For instead of only watching the sun,
He can feel it rising.
>Starr Williams
