An ode to aging
Rocking, he sat. Holding in hand, during the dawn of spring, and then summer’s heat, a refreshing draught. In autumn’s chill and winter’s cold, a warming elixir. Always rocking and, whate’er the season, looking out across the field budding with flowers, greening tall grass, turned brown, or cloaked in velvety white.
He rises and, with spritely abandon, runs across the meadow; sensing the slightest, pleasing whiff of the hyacinths adorning the garden’s edge, catching sight of the swift-graced kestrel’s flight, listening to the whippoorwill’s nocturnal cry, sampling the offerings of the huckleberry bushes, then stretching out, abed on the waiting earth.
Remembering, he rocks. For rising and running were long ago. At some moment, his eyes, for aye, will close. For now, he rocks and remembers. And smiles.
© 2021 PRA