In the garden,
an old man sits
head bowed over a book.
And the breeze softly turns the page.
His eyes
that no longer heed the author’s words
that once knew beauty and tears and smiles
are dim.
And the breeze softly turns the page.
His hand
that once fitted perfectly another’s,
that remembered the warm softness of a baby’s hair
and the icy clasp of snow
is cold.
And the breeze softly turns the page.
His heart
that once beat with the rhythm of passion and excitement
and the gentler cadence of love
is still.
And the breeze softly closes the book.
