Grey hair like rocks,
blue eyes of history,
palms shunned from weapons,
hands creating life.
Bigfoot, I called him.
He nested in his bear cave,
withdrawn from eyes,
on a street, whose name sounded like colors.
His window had to be shut, always.
It was autumn,
red oak tree leaves floated with the winds.
I’d climb the tables to reach the black-lined window,
and sit there, filling my lungs with children-chattered air.
It was October, and the coal miner’s ghosts whooshed with wariness.
Red roses coated the street.
A strong knocking.
He was back.
My friend rose in disdain, feeling exposed to the day dust.
Didn’t I tell you to never open the window?
His long, silver eyebrows scowled,
and a taut finger pointing to the door.
My throne was removed from the cave.
The children chatters continued to dance with the falling leaves.
I jumped down, glanced up at the wasp in the ceiling, that would trouble him in the night, took my bags, and went outside.
Then I fell in love with him.