A gray mist hung like an apron on the windowsill,

As the old man peered into the mornings chill.

Blackbirds played tag between the trees

And a soft wind tossed the fallen leaves.

His eyes were as gray as the morning’s fog

As he leaned from his rocker,

To stoke life into the fires log.

Alone he sat as he greeted the day,

Rocking gently to a silent tune,

From his younger days.

Hours on end, by the window alone,

This is where he would stay,

Watching and grieving,

while the time slipped softly away.

Across the yard now he could almost see,

The decrepit old barn, which he had built in 1923.

Its tired roof had now caved in,

Leaving a gaping hole on the south end.

Memories now clouded his fragile mind,

With recollections of youths bounty and homemade wine.

Then the tears afresh would start again,

As he pondered, why he was born,

Just for it to end.

And if it must really end,

Then why, oh why, must it be this way?

With a body all weak and eyes half blind,

Sitting all alone and starring into the,

Cold and silent gray.