© Steve King
All rights reserved
For
years, my family kept an ancient stand
to
guard the foyer of the old homestead.
It
stood with brass fixtures and mottled glass
amid
the shadows of the entry way.
I
can remember hearing stories told
by
white-haired women long enough in life
to
have no time nor reason left to lie,
of
how the stately piece had onetime stood
in
Mr. Stanton's hallway through the war,
and
how the president would stoop to don
that
quaint, ungainly stovepipe that he wore,
and
linger at the mirror 'til he found
the
look that he would carry out the door.
I'd
sit expectant in the darkened hall
and
stare into the worn silver until
my
eyes beheld his features staring back.
I
built his form each time from memory:
a
face that found its shape in deep-hewn lines;
the
gangling frame, with hands that knew the feel
of
something rougher than a cabinet brief;
the
rounded shoulders, heavy then with grief,
perhaps
as he set out for Gettysburgh...
At
last, I'd find the caverns of his eyes.
I'd
wonder how it was that mirror glass
could
play such somber tricks with common light.
Peering
through the solemn depths, I'd see
the
dark and troubling vision that he kept,
and
feel the flood of sadness that was said
to
permeate much of his waking thought:
a
melancholy that surpassed the heights
from
which he looked upon his riven world;
not
just a longing for a peaceful end
to
the great madness that was going 'round,
nor
dread about the outcome of the task,
or
how he'd make the shattered pieces mend.
In
the gathering shadows of the hall,
I
came to feel the content of his fear:
he
knew that he must always stand alone
against
the currents of the parting time.
It
was the solitude that haunted him,
the
knowledge that he was the only one
to
bear the onus of what must be done.
I
would stay until the light had changed,
until
the captive visage was exchanged
for
my own features staring blankly on,
emerging
by degree out from the shape
of
the spirit whose eminence remained
then
only as an accent to the shade,
submerging
in the limitless fathoms
of
imagined refractions in the glass.
Then
would I find my solitary way
back
through the light and noise that filled the house,
not
wanting yet to share my reflections,
nor
sure the image could supply the word.
I
wondered how to speak of sadness then,
how
I could find the way to willing hearers,
to
say the tale of Mr. Lincoln's face,
and
of the weight of shadows in a mirror.
(Note: This is the very first poem I posted on Excursions and Diversions. Long ago, in the course of my creative,
though inexact, blog editing, I somehow managed to delete it. I thought it was time it returned to its
rightful home.)
A
post for the Poetry Pantry
