old man,

to the old man id wish we could meet again

With white hair that swore wisdom--

and crooked hands that proved exhaustive labor--

and wrinkles that protested against the passing of time--

and, a face battered--

promising beauty of aging

with clothes tattered--

from constant use,

he walked with his cane in renewed purpose,

hid body urging him forward--

to me,

till he was afront; his smiling seeping through the gruff walls--

as he asked for directions,

which I responded to, patiently,

making him smile again;

as he turned to leave

only to return by eve,

with not a question in mind,

but rather a grin pressed in rewind,

a grin everlasting as he narrated a tale of time,

which only increased tenfold when he closed his eyes,

telling me of the good ol' days,

with no lies,

bringing a smile on my face,

in numerous ways,

and once he had his fill--

he lingered for quite a bit

till his time had neared its end

but to me, truly it had never ended,

for he had knit--

a part of me none else had,

or could,

so even with the passing of days,

did I often ponder over the old man,

sending my blessings to him every day and night.

to the possibility of us,

one more time...

pressed on rewind.