afor Amos E. Parrott (1895-1990) and Vincent Parrott (1901-1987)
On the first morning
in their home
become our own
I woke to the world astir
with quiet voices, creaking old chairs, clink
and scrape of silverware against plates.
The few words floated
far above my table-high head
as I neared their source.
Men older than time
sat with the authority of goodness–
Amos backlit, presiding; Vincent
in profile–both performing simple motions
of grace unawares
amid a dazzle on glass, on china, upon
their very heads and hands; awash in gold
unawed. One with
They are gone.
I am always looking back
to their light.