An old man waits beneath the branches,
His hat tilted, wide like a quiet umbrella.
Colors ripple on him: soft yellow, patient green,
Never a shade heavy as black,
Nor the tired hush of gray.
He does not wait for the traffic to pause,
Or for time to nod.
He greets each face that drifts near,
His smile a lantern, steady in its glow.
His hands, open like unwrapped gifts,
Carry a welcome in their quiet reach.
His face whispers warmth,
As if made of morning sunlight.
Those who know heavy pages,
Who\'ve worn years like thick cloaks,
Place their hands in his.
He leads them gently, softly, away.
No one watches where he disappears to,
But his walk carries only kindness with it.
Maybe he knows the paths we avoid,
Where the ending hums like a lullaby.