Sunday, August 3, 2008

White Halos

It's not exactly fair for the young to write about the old, but I've done it anyway, and with all the lack of foresight and knowledge and wisdom that accompanies youth. It is in the spirit of this innate foolishness that I post this poem, which in all likelihood has little bearing on the reality of old age. But it is also in the spirit of that other old age - August, whose receding days whisper of falling leaves and school buses.


White Halos

My friends, your chairs are empty,
this loneliness is new.
Our days were once so plenty,
but now are numbered few.

I see your heads around me
with halos white adorned,
though not as angels are we,
but merely men forlorn,

Recalling how time wandered
and we did watch it pass,
without a breath to ponder
that none of this would last.

So now we’re left with hours,
and all these empty chairs,
and feebleness for power,
and halos for our hair.

No comments: