The rising sun warms the dew
laid upon carefully compacted earth.
Rays of swirling mist and twinkling water
droplets
decorate the ground beneath his knees.
He unlatches and opens the gate to his
Fenced-in plot of hopes and dreams sown
before his birth.
He walks with legs heavy-burdened with age
over to a lonely lawn chair in
no particular place.
This old, tired man groans as he settles
into the squeaking aluminum seat;
from there he peers over what he
can proudly call his own.
He folds his hands over his swollen belly
reminisces about what was amidst
the very little that is.
Time grinds to a halt,
age rolls backward
there; with the constant twiddle of his
thumbs
his mind uplifts him from the desolate
weakened body to a land
buried deep within his memory.
He soars from the deteriorating vessel
upon wings of consciousness;
he swoops down and
scoops from the seas of youth
and quenches his thirst for vibrancy.
There upon that chair, cars
roll by and stare at the forlorn squatter,
images of times past flash before
his blank veneer, rooms filled,
bustling stoves, bubbling pots,
loaded plates, and laden stomachs,
fellowship, friendship, family.
Few can say that they too felt love
and lost, ever saw hopes realized
and saw them crumble,
harvested the fruits of their labor
only to watch them wither with shelf rot.
This old man mulls over the ironies of
his life,
examines the barren landscape,
the empty lot,
his solitude, and
wonders if to never have loved at all
is the superior notion.
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