Crumbs of bread

On many a morning
crumbs of bread
litter his tablecloth

This is February
there is mist everywhere
above the river, on the shoulders
of old mountains

There is mist in his eyes too

How much warmth does it take
for the thawing
his heart melted and hardened
to a rock with iron-smoothness

He doesn't wish for moss to grow on it either

only his frail eyes fail to locate
the crumbs of bread on his table
too trifle to notice
yet too filthy for a clear soul
to neglect