Tovli Simiryan

An Old Man’s Kiss

Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown into flame by another human being. Each of us owes deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this light.
—Albert Schweitzer

He pauses at the window.
The neighbor’s lawn has turned to honey.
Dry, fragile sticks pierce boards and sidewalk,
blossoming smoother than anything else
he’s thought about recently.
What is there left to appreciate?
His wife joins him like a quick storm,
her words reinventing efficiency once again…
“Oh. It’s fall, it will look
cute, lavish in spring.”
Oatmeal boils from the pan to the stove.
It’s song sticks forever,
the way his wife departs,
tenacious, determined to return.
How is it women make weeds green
when they should be brown scars,
or think a moon, the size of a fingernail,
floating at dusk begets abundance?
He waits for little sounds:
eggshells falling on tile,
something to start; something to finish,
inseparable—barley worth hearing
like happiness, and all
the other shadows
he’s sewn into old seeds.

Tovli Simiryan

An Old Man’s Kiss

Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown into flame by another human being. Each of us owes deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this light. —Albert Schweitzer

Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown into flame by another human being. Each of us owes deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this light.
—Albert Schweitzer