Life of the Old Man



Where once a sprightly sapling stood and spun

With summery rays and butterflies, now lies

A withered Oak, his gnarled and wrinkled skin,


Marred and aged by the winters’ deathly seize.

He’s lost his mane to the dust beneath, his limbs

Knotted and dressed in mossy green. The skies


Caressing him, sagging spine, with whistled hymns,

For he’s stood tall and evergreen through trill

Tempest, he’s sheltered all who cloud bedims,


Who've loved him, missed and loved again and still,

When Reaper’s staff does knock, it meets him: lost,

And always quite surprised when it shoots to kill.

Remembrance rattles through his lungs, and blest;

His final sunrise lays him down to rest.


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