He said his uncle had “spent his life.”
I loved him because he understood
the metaphor of each day a spent coin.
I loved him because he stripped away the rind,
seeing into the heart of things.
Broth condensed to its essence.
I looked to him as a dandelion
looks to the sun.

Because he spoke my truth
something inside me responded
like those black and white terrier magnets
from childhood, one spinning around
to align itself with the other.

My trifling with words, a like-long striving
to sing in tune with his song.