Toward Old

The map of his face, a cartography of years,

Etched with furrows where laughter once flowed free,

And canyons carved by the relentless tears

Of watching seasons change, eternally.

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His eyes, once sharp as flint, now hold a haze,

A milky film that softens every view,

Reflecting back the sun's diminished rays,

And whispering of skies both gray and blue.

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He sits upon the porch, a weathered throne,

His hands, like gnarled branches, grip the wood,

Each knot and vein a story of his own,

Of storms endured, and harvests understood.

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The wind, a restless traveler, sighs and moans,

And lifts a wisp of silver from his head,

A ghostly echo of the youthful tones

That sang of dreams he thought were long since dead.

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But in the quiet flicker of his gaze,

A spark remains, a ember glowing low,

A testament to love in bygone days,

And seeds of hope he stubbornly did sow.

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He doesn't crave the thunder or the rain,

Nor yearn for battles fought and victories won,

He seeks the solace of the sun again,

And waits for evening when the day is done.

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For in the tapestry of time's long weave,

He finds a peace that youth could never know,

A quiet strength that helps him to believe

In beauty even as the shadows grow.