The old silver fox laid down his head Burrowed down and took one last breath Before falling into an eternal slumber, The peaceful sleep of the dead. They gathered around his fallen form And crying a river of tears, told his life stories Which fell like rain on to the place where he lay Beneath the full moon One Tuesday in June. And the earth turned still Made its way, Its inexorable, ceaseless way Around the sun The circuit of life Tracing patterns of stars in the night sky Moving to the tempo of the seasons From the tear soaked ground Arose a tangle of verdant growth A soft bed of grass Bedecked with bright flowers Beneath the sprouting shoots of saplings And the hum of honey bees But every year in June They gather by the light of the moon On the glistening beach where the silver fox used to prowl With his rough growl and his big scarred heart To remember him They gather in the shadow of the trees On the edge of the sea Now thick and tall with age Lush with the sound of birds Awake with the rustle of life And they share new stories Seeded in the past Connected in their beginnings Now expanded, grown Stretched out in a myriad of glorious directions Their laughter rings into the night Reverberates amongst the trees And deep in the woods A wispy silver shadow Slips through the night Content with his legacy.
Sharlene Zeederberg, revised June 2020 - In memory of my father, Terry Weedman.
Reflections from Middle Age 
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