From this perspective
my uncle appears so
small
as if Death had place him
at the wrong
end of a telescope
but I am not
taken in by this
illusion
see him in my mind's
eye
drawn from
memory
like an over-spilling bucket
winched from a well
bursting at the seams
with life
towering over
Death
looking pale & insignificant.
I held in the big strength
of his tenderness
the sun
his smiling
the weather
his laughter
the wind
his stories
ruffling my hair
with his breath.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
wonderful....................... Ruthie