patina

for Chester Lewis Hanna, 1914-2007

The last time I saw him,

he was a dandelion

pale with seed,

uneven and linty.

Under his bifocals,

his eyes had accrued

a thick luminous layer,

ripe with tales

of the great depression.

When he spoke,

his soft breath,

over his pocket protector,

smelled sweet and mellow

like his favorite prunes.

Mostly, I listened, mute,

afraid to shout large enough

for him to hear;

the sound might discharge

the fragile pod, a burst

of woolly seed, his DNA

in parachutes.

willow, 2010