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.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: June 1st, 2026 07:54
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson)
Offline)
Comments2
a beautiful write and a fav
Thank You Norman
most welcome
Gray I have always seen death as a kind friend that in its mercy takes away pain and strife. This poem fits well that view and I love it
Thank You Soren
Most welcome Gray
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