I saw an old man, walking this morning.
Early, it was. Not more than six-thirty, or so,
I saw an old man, walking. But he did not walk alone.
Alongside him, holding his hand, she walked, too.
Not old, like him, though. She was not old.
She reached up to his firm, strong grip, ambling alongside him.
And now, I noticed that she shuffled her feet, her cadence steady as a faucet drip.
A steady step, and regular, too, as if she had no where to go,
And all day to get there.
Happy as the proverbial lark who sings;
Happy as any child who brings innocence to this dawning day.
I notice the magic of her presence bringing warmth and companionship to the old one;
Not more than three years old, in the quiet of today’s morning,
She and he walked in the cool.
No conversation between them.
No hurry amongst them.
No worry or scurry or current or stream they struggled to navigate.
There was only the morning, this morning, between them,
And the silence,
And the walk … together.
Oh, to possess the wonder she expressed.
Her slowness of step.
Her noticing of the flowers that grew;
Flowers that seemed as if they were growing just so she could stop
To marvel at their shape and color and beauty.
I saw her point, on occasion, too.
She may have said something, as she pointed. I do not know.
But he, the old one, nodded as he acknowledged her pointing.
Perhaps she asked a question.
Perhaps he knew the answer.
Or, perhaps, there was no interrogation, only observation.
No matter. They walked, steps slow as any clock ticking,
Slow as the pace of any eternity.
Step after step.
Moment after moment.
Right out in front of God and everybody.
They held hands and sauntered along,
And they seemed as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
“ … he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and they hid from the Lord God …” (Gen. 3:8)