When The Sun Finds Him Alone
He slips out early, stepping over dew,
Before the maize stalks catch the morning gold.
We trace the outline of the man we knew,
And learn the quieter story never told.
His palms are maps of furrows, deep and raw,
Of seasons borne beneath a patient sun.
Yet in those calloused hands we thought we saw
A brief, slight tremor when the day was done.
There is a boy still lingering in his gaze,
Who used to race the river to its bend.
We watch him grieve that boy on dusty days,
And mourn the dream that could not reach its end.
And in the evening, when the cooking’s done,
And all the hungry mouths are fast asleep,
We hear the cot creak softly in the dark,
And know how much a weary man can keep.
We know the truth beneath that hardened shell:
He is not iron, though he bends for us.
He bleeds a red that only shadows tell,
And breathes his prayers in silence, without fuss.
So let us lift the mantle, just today,
And let his heavy silence fall like rain.
Then let that tender, trembling man stand clear,
Like dusk-light settling softly after rain.
Happy Father’s Day 2026!
©TheVillageBoy.
(The figure man who loves alphabets)
