Newel Post

6.2.06

He holds his head

with tilted intent

or is it

the mast behind him?

For years, this homo

sapiens erectus lived at

the bottom of

my staircase and

anchored my heart.

Three flights of rich brown bannister

smoothed by years of growing,

groping hands

and slithering slides

led to the bottom floor

where essential man

silently held up his world.

Then my father left,

the ground shifted and I stopped

caressing the newel post,

on each descent.

Years later, this Poseideon, Centaur, Jesus

is back in my home

tilted into a corner where

I pass daily.

I can again touch the

aged warm blooded wood,

the worn elbows and rippling chest

remembering a man

who had to go in order to

stay in himself.

I don't recall the smirking sunflower face,

however,

nor the Griffen's paw on which he balances

for the child saw only bearded tranquility;

But the adult has unwrapped the

souvenir, which has shrunk over the years

and sees now a tri-partite padre,

carved with a loving chisel,

and sanded to a soft glow

who also left splinters behind.