Poetry

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He was a scrawny man to meet. But in his heart a host of strength and charity stood tall. Though few would ever notice it—and fewer still would hesitate to look his way at all.

His time worn face, fashioned by events his eyes had seen, could with each wrinkle write an epic tale—and hold a treasure for any who might stop to hear—and then from wisdom’s fount to glean.

But not so much is new beneath the sun. The fading wealth of wisdom’s fold goes unseen as passersby to some importance run.

His eyes—they hold deep reflections of times life seemed a dream—as well as times of heartbreak, loss, and all that life can muster in a moment’s misery.

His spotted hands, gray head, and wrinkled brow once seen a crown of glory, now—now despised—seen as frailty and loss of youth.

His time is short, and in this is our test. Will we seek to reap from what his life has sown? Or will days dwindle on until all he has to give is lost—with all he’s ever known.

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