The way grey hits the wooly fibers across his chin,

like individual spikes of a wheel

poking in multiple directions,

with fusing colors like a Monet.

 

I graze my fingers through the fibers

like walking through cornfields 

with long and mysterious paths that

lead to depths I long to uncover.

 

He rests his hands upon his cheek,

pondering his next move

then stroking back and forth the ebony & ivory,

like the piano keys he gently plays for me.

 

The tune of his melody, deep and sweet,

intrudes my darkness, brushes away

the sagging of years upon my back, 

and aligns our eyes to meet.