Gentle is His Telling
We are in Church
singing an old traditional
while I wait for the joy
in the familiar refrain
I notice my mother's eyes on me
soft and green as the spirit of the hymn
a small smile colors their corners
and I feel comfort in her gentle gaze
...
Church has become a forest
and I wait at the base
of a seven foot jump
praying that he won't crash
later, he tells of the time in the air
and the way he encouraged his bike
he feels my eyes on him
watching the gift of each word
gentle is his telling
gentle is the landing