An old man

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There was an old man,

He looked out balefuly at his garden in its pearl-white suit

His eyes dimmed with age sought a solitary bud on a thorny skeleton,

And he thought to himself:

“She knows she ought not bloom

For slayed she would be by the surly North wind,

Yet her forlorn face draws these pools from mine eyes dulled with life’s wretchedness.

How unfortunate no one sees her smile or her comely countenance,

Let me sit out here on my porch with the warmth of this lantern amidst this cold, dark air

And give company to her loneliness.”

And so he sat wrapped in the cold winter air and gazed and gazed

As a thin ray of light fell on her solitude.

The night grew empty and unknown to the man

She mused to herself:

“How melancholic this man,

Oh, how yearning are his eyes!

He reminds me of an old Gardener who once planted with so much care.

He feels like the warm breath of early spring,

How then can I remain unyielding, so remote, so elusive and cloaked in my shell?

Let me lighten those tired eyes with a bygone fire of a poem or perhaps an old frame.”

In amazement the old man stared,

As the light from his lantern kissed her face,

His garden bled like a broken heart,

Amidst that she blossomed like love beneath a demure bride’s veil.