Poetry
He sat quietly on the grass under the shadow of the pine.
With his long arms he tightly braced his knees to give his back support.
His earnest face was looking downhill at the abandoned house.
Not one year past, already wicked weeds and vines have made their move.
On lovely spring evenings I’ve seen him walk this trail,
This snaky trail that twists and turns around the solitary trees
And sliders past his house some twenty feet away.
His princely strides were calm and seemed without a thought
For nought beyond the hills and plains of his today.
A tall and slender man he was. His countenance
Communicated warmth like light from the warm sun.
While walking by he’d turn and look at you and nod
His head and smile then look away. This was
The manner of the man who would ever remain
A mystery on the minds of the people here:
Some women thought him rude while children called him strange.
Even his fellow men thought him a prude—
But then they carefully observed the man and knew
Either from his progenitors inherited
Or the product of a disciplinarian
Whose solemn rod he knew from time to time
He was a quiet man whose lot was not to know
The joy of human company. He would abide
Alone, no father, mother, brother, sister, wife.
Scarcely would his door open to welcome a guest,
And yet, he seemed content with his life’s solitude.
In but a moment all around him turned to gold.
The man was on his feet both hands in his pockets
Surprised bright
He couldn’t stay. The day would be displaced by night.
He’s still before leaving, staring at the lone house:
“No longer shall we see you walk our streets nor
“This your favored trail. You left Time for Eternity.
“Though none on earth, I hope you had a Friend in Heav’n.”
Already many solar Rays were eaten by hungry Twilight,
And soon this tree and hill and trail would be consumed in blackest night.
The watcher turned and headed home before bleak night smothered faint day.
If night should catch him in these parts he knew for sure he’d lose his way.