The Quiet Man

The quiet man rocked his creaky chair
While the sun set just a bit earlier that day.
A dead leaf landed in his wispy hair and
He stared at his boots for something to say.

The porch’s faded color matched the dying grass,
Splinters and rusty nails that bit like the cold.
His coffee was bitter, his mood like brass,
He did not want to say goodbye to the old.

The spring mornings had seemed endless.
Damp grass and shade trees beckoned
Drenched in the sun’s golden excess –
That led to the lake, to swim with friends.

Dragonflies and fishing reels buzzed a music -
Summer songs to dance and steal kisses
And the last of the green on the popsicle stick.
Over campfires and crickets, the reminiscence.

It was sleepiness that finally led them to dreams
To dive into blackness, and surface again
The cool waters on hot days of delighted screams
To strip off their clothes and run in the rain.

From behind the screen, his daughter’s voice,
“Dad? You okay out there?” He just sighed.
It wasn’t as though he had any other choice.
So he sipped and rocked as summer died.