A Trilogy On Age Poem by cheryl davis miller

Them

Who'll shed a tear, when they are gone?
Their lives who shall recall?
Who'll lay a wreath at their tombstone?
Will any visit at all?

Lives they gladly lived for others,
for children and family,
for church friends, neighbors and strangers,
they gave their lives lovingly.

Now they have grown old and feeble,
all strength and wealth now is gone.
No knocks at the door, nor phone calls.
Who'll weep when they have gone on?


Her

What's the cause of her pessimistic view,
and oft spoken remark, ' Oh well.'
She flows from a child-like joyful state
right into a mean doubtful spell.

I can tell that it is a learned practice,
not part of her nature at all.
What made her lose hope in the future?
and made her heart bitter as gall?

Heartache and loss are the culprits of what,
drove her to this gloomy outlook.
The twinkle in her eyes has told me so,
I can read her, just like a book.

I pray a change comes and turns things around,
dispelling her woe-full despair.
That the Lord, touches her family soon,
and remembers Dorothy's prayer.

Him

Alone with his thoughts, going round and round.
He sits quietly seldom making a sound.
I ponder where his thoughts would take him to,
he's seen a lot; being he's ninety-two.

He's spoke of clearing a virgin wood stand.
He and his father cut them all by hand.
There 'neath the shadow of huge hemlock trees;
the boy laid the ground for the man's stories.

His eyes would shine brightly as he'd recall;
how they cut them down with a two-man saw.
Then just as quickly his eyes turn dark;
he grows quiet and his mood becomes stark.

You know then to hush; and just let him be.
He's turned from the past to eternity.
His greatest adventure's out there somewhere.
Unseen as yet; it's one he cannot share.

5/28/14