My Old Man

He hears me without listening,
Without ears.

He sees me without looking,
Without eyes.

He speaks to me without talking,
Without a voice.

But I hear him daily, feel his words about me,
Not about, but around me.

He looks older now, his skin pale and drying,
Scrawny arms in silhouette revealing,

A frame still statuesque,
Even in his winter years.

Not even a shadow of his former self,
His summer self, when in rude health,

He would scruffle with the wind,
And brazenly black out the sun.

Then he would holler at me for fun,
Thundering his whispers in my ears,

Letting me know I was safe.
As he does every waking day.