The Memory Maker

I’m watching
the memory maker bleeding words
onto white cotton paper
from his dark quill of memories
sitting with a bow bent back
at the oak wood table of creation
stained by the lonely tears of history.
Seeing if
the candle of hope in his heart
dripping white wax onto dark ink
will survive the cold south wind
tucking at his old worn brown coat
touching the floor with a tenderness
from a distant time when all was new.