Loping along, beaming
to himself
wrapped up in a Mystery
that needs no answers
the old man nods, laughs,
grins so broadly
his mouth is a bridge
to the World to Come where
Mohammed or Mary or Moses
swallow all his worries
and whys like a trout
gulps a fly in spring,
when creation,
suddenly unlocked
from the icy concerns of winter,
flows free again.

Old man glowing, poet
of the inscrutable, an Abraham among men
who has finally understood his Isaac,
against all odds,
will grow to manhood.