Ancient eyes, with a wise view,

Wrinkled face losing its past youth.

Echoed voices from years long past,

Forever old and aging fast.

Once so very, very long ago,

His calloused hands could make things grow.

Those same hands have withered since,

No longer able to mend his fence.

Stooped shoulders once straight and proud,

Now lack the freedom they once found.

Legs, once sturdy, tall, and strong,

Now, lack the strength to hold for long.

A balding gray head, too long in the sun,

A hat he needs, and he reaches for one.

arthritic fingers, years of hard labor,

Wipes sweat from his brow, a drink of water,

He savors.

He doesn't mourn his lost youth,

He's just so very tired to tell the truth.

He's seen wars and drought pain and suffering,

And to him, life has given nothing.

Yet, his aging body continues on,

And as habits go still awakens at dawn.

His days are longer and harder to fill,

As he sits on his porch, at his house, upon the hill.

He squints his eyes, against the bright sunlight,

And fights the loneliness, with all his might.

Forgotten by family, forsaken by friends,

His broken heart will never mend.

He has grandchildren he's never met, and that

Fills his heart, with a deep regret.

No laughter, nor joy, fills this once happy home

And the old man, grieves alone.

The car honks its horn, as it approaches,

The old man’s eyes, begin their searching.

Closer in view it came, till the old man,

Whispered only one name.

After many years, happiness had come,

For here before him, stood his only son.

He came closer, and hugged the old man,

and stepping on the porch, took his hand.

© Cynthia Clark