‘tis at the end of a willow shaded lane,
within the whispers of a stony brook,
whose waters of melted mountain snow flow chilled and clear,
near a meadow of dandelions and wild daffodils,
one comes upon a rough-hewn cabin,
formed of aged timbers that have grown the color of dark wine
‘neath a rook of mossy shingles, once the color of cypress logs.
it is here that the old man lives,
a bent man who makes his way with the help of a hickory cane
and a memory of a lifetime hiding in these woods.
of course, he was not always old,
he was not always bent,
he was not always near forgotten.
once he was young and had dreams to chase,
once he was of city streets and crowded places,
he was once much more of the human world,
the world created long after God was done,
the worn and weary world,
the hurried world, the harried world,
the world of never- satisfied,
where peace lies buried with those who rest in peace.
but then one night,
while a field was full of moonlight,
a solitary nightingale happened to sing a song,
and the young man left all behind,
and went down a shaded lane,
and went away to a very seldom place,
a world so deep within the world out here,
the world of what might have been,
if we had let it be,
the way it was back then.
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