the old man

blue light seeps through the shutters, day begins:

early morning quiet Monteparson, an old man, gaunt with grey whiskers on his cheeks and chin, stares into a tree full of red berries; his old eyes, soft blue like the sky behind its highest clouds and bags lay low below them, like puffy cumulous waiting to rain. the woman he loves starts past again, like every other day, with her trolly, a decade or two his minor; he watches her everyday. the man points abruptly in front of her startled face, Do you see those berries? he asks excitedly, eager to hear her speak. She ducks nervous to pass, yes, and continues as he turns to keep her attention. They're poisonous, but i want to eat them.
he cant keep up with her youthful pace, and lungs too abused by years to shout, he watches her go, backside swinging side to side.