Under the dogwood red berries
bloom, the old man sets
to watch heavy corrugated clouds
form the image of his day,
before wind fountains foliage
to flight. The dogwood settles
back upon its bough
awaiting another season change.

In this dawn of his
dying, the wet washed wrinkles
of his face
chart the geography
of his soul;
sunlight streams through
the stained glass mosaic
of memory green in the soil of earth
rooted from the marrow of his bones.
His words form slowly, ripen
to spheres placed in sound.

“Now figures
burn not before my eyes
but through my ears.
I hear everything again and
I remember —

“At night we would
make our way by smell;
jasmine marking the cross
road turn
lavender the path to go.
You know
kisses make the man.

“I still believe in gods
the form of things unknown
the unknown of all things formed.
Do not place
pennies on my eyes
I want to see if angels
come when I die.”