Author’s Note: This poem pays tribute to those whose monumental everyday deeds go unnoticed. It is of no meaning to sculpt a body lifting weights, to paint it brown on the beach. It is in the “weathered face of a sun-beaten soul” that we find true strength. The taut cords of muscle wound tight by trial are where true strength lies.
What is strength?
The sun-touched limb of
Perfect form, caressed
By leisure but time untried? Or
The weathered face
Of a sun-beaten soul
A forgotten façade
Hardened by time?
He may not seem like much at first
A man who’s lived his whole life cursed
But hidden ‘neath those half-closed lids
A dangerous glint lingers, forbids
Perhaps. But if one might dare
Cast his gaze past shuttered glare
Past years of toil, years of care
He might discover something more
The silent strength of windswept shore
No comments:
Post a Comment