(in essence the Norse god of heroic endeavour)
The tallest tales were yours.
The man who would put his hand
In the mouth of a wolf, even if it meant
He’d lose it there; he’d take that chance.
You, a family man to any human,
Would purchase kindness, forget the cost.
Then extend the only ruddy hand you had left
To any “wreck of a Hesperus”.
You were no “fart in a cane bottom chair”,
A master of the mouth from birth,
Could sell bibles to a priest, produce to a market,
You might even make God buy the Earth.
You, set all your Dixie biscuits straight,
Like little suns, laid in the safety of a sturdy drawer,
Like your arms have always been—stern and strong,
But with care carrying the smallest flower.
Despite your twilight years, your bright wit
Showed that even a one-handed god
Could do damage with a spear, for you
A flip of the tongue was wielding a sword.
We watched you,
Maneuver a walker, with quiet might.
We watched you,
Take our children, hold them tight.
We watched you,
I think you despised
That we watched you,
With pity in our eyes.
We do not know just when you turned.
Time always will, without permission.
We prayed behind our smiles that any
Ill would fall prey to remission.
Still you, last of three, holding on in-between
Time and eternity, you, the last man standing,
Twisting in your bed, like limbo dancing.
Up and down stairs, wandering.
Wondering if you’d escape
The mortal’s fate: a low, slack tide.
Your dictums find the will to live.
Truth is “we live until we die”.