Three Seconds in Winter

One February afternoon
as I hurried toward the rest of my day,
I looked up from the pavement
to see a man approaching.
He was tall and awkward.
He wore a small coat
and a fur cap with ear-muffs.
He carried himself on old man's legs,
or legs made stiff by illness or injury.
His face was younger than his walk,
his features broad and round--
not fat,
not smiling,
but warm beneath the squinting effort
that told of the pain in all he did.
And there and then
I felt a rush of love that shocked me,
an impulse to interpose myself
between this man
and whatever would come to hurt him.
I did nothing of the kind, of course.
We passed each other without a pause.
He vanished into the rest of the day.

How long does it take the heart
to hang a portrait in its gallery?
(Or was it really a mirror?)

Three seconds at most.
A full three seconds.

Copyright 2006 Joseph Hart
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