Nine Lives

It was nice to wear a flannel shirt,
and appreciate the rain,
in homage to a man who loved the outdoors;
from far and wide we came.

The summer before my daughter was born,
I’d leapt from my chair to the stairs
to help the bike rider, the kayaker, the hunter,
who’d faltered halfway and despaired,

“Here’s a tip,” he said, “never get old.”
Recalling each of his cat-like nine lives.
Now gathering with grandchildren he’ll not get to hold,
we share stories so his memory survives.