The Old Man and the Cuckoo

A taciturn stonesits lookingover the fog-filled valleyHis distant gazeis cut into fragments

He’s wrapped ina black capeTotal stillness behind himOccasionallyone driftingcloudapproachesthe top of his head

Memories of times pastcan perhaps stillfloat up from his heart’s depthsHe’ll be the first to hearthe cuckoo’s voicesinging sweetly on that side of the mountainNo one will notice, though,in that fleeting moment,that his nostrils flare a few timesand with his aged handhe silently wipesthe tears rolling down from his eyes