I know an old man who lives down the lane
With a wrinkled old face and a thin wooden cane
From time to another, will waver an inch
But never is he known to rise from his bench

His face a still surface and a window for his eye
Content to be the witness to the world gliding by
As it croons its happy-sad, slow melody to him
A mind gently swaying to the never-ending rhythm

The fellow sits there all morning to watch the dawn of day
Our sun is climbing through its realm to find its daily stay
Dabbed, at the old man’s feet, by diamond drops of dew
On the face of all around the lane is brushed a brighter hue
Creatures, every breed, deliver their new-day song
A happy heart frolics with them all along
Persons stir from their homes; call down the lanes to say
“Good morning!” to the one who always sees the dawn of day

He sits there all afternoon to see the noontime of day
Colors flit ’round and ’round to brightly lead the eyes astray
A hand of warmth envelops him throughout the lengthy hours
He sups the sun with budding leaves and blooming flowers
Blithe butterflies flutter; the aged trees creak and sway
A smile in the air when the children come to play
Majestic clouds bow low to him, only to swirl away
Bow low to the one who always sees the heart of day

He sits there all the evening to watch the close of day
Through windows of homes, to watch the folks who pray
But darkness crawls across the sky, keeps the light at bay
Lonely silence lingers when Day’s last sparks die away
Save a twinkle from the dark depths; the stars have come to stay!
Light, darkness, silence, sound – skipping hand in hand
Beautifully joyous in the dusk-to-dawn band
A worn face in the shadows observes the array
The face of the one who always sees the close of day

Every day

And feels Spring’s lively cheers
And Winter wielding chilly tears
And Summer with its golden grin
And Autumn with its crispy skin

The world so heavily embraced
By the wrinkled old man
Who sits on a bench
And lives down the lane