By Patrick Cabello Hansel
He who passed the span
From horses to spaceships,
From telegrams to Twitter,
From sitting around the radio
On cold nights, listening
To “Hit Parade” and “Sky King”
To the first black and white TV,
Then color, then laptops,
Now watches you can surf from,
From the “ja” of Swedish
To the “yes” of English
To the “si” of Spanish
All still spoken in his town,
His community, his Phillips.
His hands, trained to mold
Metal to magnificent shapes,
To caress his wife, to
Build his workshop,
His rough and gentled fingers,
That folded in grace
Ten thousand times, that
Ate of the fruits of the earth,
Now lie still.
His eyes, shut at birth,
Then opened to watch
The world unfold
On the farm, to see
A new way in the city,
To behold the fragile
And wondrous hope
Of being alive,
To wink and smile
At friend and stranger alike,
Now lie closed.
His legs, those marvelous
Limbs that took him
God knows how many miles,
His lips, which crafted
Smiles and stories
And blessings abundant,
Will not move.
But his words,
His memories,
The photographs he took
Throughout decades,
The museum of his life
In the old livery stable
Out back have not departed.
They have grown wings!
To soar above Phillips,
To watch the years unfold
To sprinkle sunshine
On all who weep,
On all who wonder.
