Gentle is His Telling

 

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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