Gold Coins

there's an old person on the sidewalk
clothed in layers of scraps and mismatched coats.
man and woman can both be found in the face, in the hands,
in the deep, old laugh that crunches in the snow.
passersby drop coins without a glance,
leaving a ring of untouched gold around the unnoticing person.

it was never coins she wanted when she was a young, beautiful, blushing girl
who danced and giggled and sang..

it was never coins he was after when he was a young man,
traveling unseen lands, full of life and energy and hope for the world..

and it was not coins they wanted now, as they sat there on the snowy sidewalk,
soaking some sun into bits of uncovered cheek and hands.
they smiled big and laughed loud and often,
they even clasped hands over their single lap,
gently brushing out wrinkles and creases in the pile of skirts and blankets.

it sounded like one voice, one smooth stream of monlogue.
it looked like one person, one old, lonely, senile person...
but the old cheeks were rosy with fresh laughter, and a warm heart (or two),
and the eyes beamed out brightly, at nothing..
twinkling like eyes that are blind to the first three dimensions,
and sit always on the brink of joyous tears in their own perfect visions.

they had come together in youth once a very long time ago,
and the coming together had never found an end, a limit, or a lack of passion.
they had merged completely, for that, they discovered, is what it is all about.

and on the cold morning when the old person lay silent,
bundled against a cold wind that no longer touched them,
it was quiet there, and peaceful, and sweet..
a sweet that you could taste when you sipped the cold air,
a sweet that wrapped cold hands in warm comfort,
sweet like a drop of honey falling from under an eyelid,
then slowly streaming down to a warm smiling mouth.

to be bound in love and truth and hope
is to be bound by your very soul and existence.

may the passersby bring warm crusty bread, spread with butter,
and cups of hot tea, and coffee, and cocoa to warm your fingers...
for a coin is only good for laying on the icy white powder,
and reflecting little round spots of sunlight up onto your cheeks.


Written by Rachael Sage Payne ©

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