A Call Up

The old brown shoes
Well past their first bloom
Broken in and broken down
At the end of the row
With frayed laces
Clinging to
Dancing memories

How does it wait
This neglected path, and
Not weed up
Thorny, hide itself
After leaving its’ indelible trace
Towards this future

There is a sonorous call
Echoing among the trees
Mingling between little sleeps, and
The still white crane
Waits at the water’s edge
To strike

When standing there long enough
There are muffled sounds
Early music sweeping in
Like the first time my mother’s hand
Brushed against my brow

Mark Mularz