Seven... eight... nine...
The reflections and recollections are formed.
Some are gentle sculptures; they carve a heartfelt monument.
Some are risqué, bold; brush strokes in confronting colours.
Some expansive
flock-encompassing gestures
expertly capitalise
on radiant celebrant sleeves.
I
am left bemused, so that... well...
And yet,
despite the home spun reminiscences or any other kind of...
spin.
I begin to see him.
The man.
He emerges
strand by silken strand, till, finally he is
untombed,
a caterpillar uncocooned,
joyous
and resplendent
with Life.
