Your seventy-year-old form, like an old tree,
In ancient mud mired for sixty years,
Now is left with a worn-out hip,
An ever-lasting, painful remembrance.
Sitting upon a red wooden stool,
You mix meds dose by dose with water,
And watch the days flow one into another,
Making all grow stale and hallow.
You are used to hearing the lament of the lonely,
Which has calloused your mind and heart.
Today, the well is still the same as before;
But now the Water Nymph sings out another kind of tune.
Old man! When I look at you,
It is like seeing a green sprout from a bare tree in spring.
That old part has come alive.
Supported by a new leg, you stride toward Resurrection.
© 2021, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
🙂