Thursday, February 1, 2018

Remembering Fowler...

Old Fowler didn’t talk a lot.

He’d never been to school at all.

He knew his numbers, though;

Upon a road, meeting a sign,

He could readily read how far,

But he couldn’t tell where to

Unless he knew the way.

Fowler was a simple man,

Gentle with hurt animals,

Kind to broken children,

Silent before grief; he was

Ever grateful for small joys,

Shirked no humble task,

Left no work half done.

Fowler looked down on none

Because they were poor,

And reverenced not a one

Because they were rich.

He never sought attention,

Any praise embarrassed,

His only eloquence, his life.

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