~ Winter Caribou ~
In honor of Mary Ann Kittell & Her Son
Who Led the Local Opera House for Many Years
Who was and is a Friend to many
To
a son I never knew, I give this poem ever true.
For though we might be blue--our emotions to subdue--
I bid you to look anew, at the fleet-footed caribou.
Never
one is she to detest, nor too quick to make a coarse jest.
When
feeding, she does her best; when
tired and weak, she does rest.
Quick
is she to hear a behest; but never
one to bid protest.
Memories of that son now past . . . come across the mind oh so fast--
Here and there a venue vast . . . with a tug, the heart
downcast.
When
winter crowds dark and cold, she searches hard to unfold
A
warm, cheery song from of old, for low spirits to uphold;
Diligently
. . . to behold, she musters her family, oh, so bold.
Memories of that son now past . . . come across the mind so
fast--
The
reindeer like caribou, no snow or musty avenue,
Can
make her once misconstrue or steal away a single hue
From
a heart full with virtue--so kind and unshakably true.
Memories of that son now past . . . come across the mind so
fast--
When
thoughts push back to yesteryear, in her eye a tear will appear.
For
many times she did hear . . . that rustling of her son so dear.
Through
the snow a path she would clear . . . to be with her son, her dear.
Memories of that son now past . . . come across the mind so
fast--
Fleetingly
run high, run quick, . . . over a candle and a stick--
Nostalgia
begs time to tick--the caribou must kick and kick,
Against
that grief so very thick: Double-back
and double-quick.
Memories of that son now past . . . come across the mind so
fast--
A
long year has now gone by, looking beyond that broad sky--
Looking
into her boy's eye--one
more tear from one more cry,
A
caribou does sit and sigh, crowded with loved ones all nearby.
Memories of that son now past . . . come across the mind oh so
fast--
At
home now with family bold, the caribou with hand to hold,
A
daughter fawn to uphold, the return of a deed of old,
The
love of family does unfold, soft to touch like solid gold.
by M.G. Maness, New Years Day, 1996
~ Click Here to e-mail me at: MG@PreciousHeart.net ~