So it goes

The old man sits back in his rocking chair,
He is tired, but one look at his garden brings a smile to his lips.
This is his favorite time of the day,
The saplings he had planted years ago have grown into big trees,
They give him shade from the sun,
Bring the music of the birds to him.
The orchids now bear the fruit of his toil,
The flowers still bring him as much joy as they did when he was a kid,
learning to plant them from his father.
He let's his feet touch the grass, its soft and cool.
He can not help but wonder what will become of it when he is gone.
His house is to be sold off, the proceeds will go to his sons and daughters,
For they have no use of it in their big cities.
His old dog will go to his friend down the street, he will be happy there.
His old car has been requested by the people in the museum, they are coming tomorrow.
Everything has been thought off.
If he could only find a way to tell someone what his garden means to him,
If he could only get to the new owners and tell them how to take care of each thing in it.
But will they understand?

To write, and to keep writing.

In order to understand what allure writing holds in my mind, I have had to understand the power of the written word, of how an article in a newspaper can spark a revolution, or how dusty old verse can fill a heavy heart with hope and make it fly again. Easy as the concept seems, it's filled with its own complexities, for people do not write to start wars and revolutions, nor do they write to give hope to strangers in far off lands.
I have come to believe a person can only write for themselves, can only write for the moment when they put that final dot at end of the sheet, take a sigh of relief and sit back to admire what they have created, for it did not exist in this world just a moment earlier, and the world has become a richer place for it.

Spring!

New, are the leaves that flutter in the wind,
Even though the tree is old, spring has given him a new life.
He revels in the knowledge that winter is over,
No longer will he be alone.
He will meet his old friends again,
those birds will come back to him.
They will tell him stories of their travels,
sing to him, bring him joy.
Once more will he see the world through their eyes,
one more will he dance to their songs.
He will shelter them from the rains,
protect their nests and little ones like his own.
Though he knows they will one day leave him and fly,
but he is not worried,
because today spring has gifted him his leaves,
and the wind has brought back the news of his friends returning home to him.