At 88,
he can’t wait
to start the day,
to crawl into the shed
or sweep the leaves out of the way.
A shaggy silver mane
and muscle shirt with muscles bulging out,
a sparkle in his eye
as he prowls his daily route.
He sees the world with artist’s eye,
greets it with a pastor’s grace,
and drives down country roads
in a car that sets the pace.
Each day
a zest for life,
a joie de vivre,
excitement to discover,
what more he might achieve.
Like a surfer
sailing down the wave of life,
moving in and out of strife,
while racing out across the crest,
and if he falls,
he gets back up
to wait and ride the next.
He is our
hero of the stairwell and the hall,
his kindness and good will,
an inspiration
to us all.
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I think I understand a bit why you write poems. There was a depth of feeling in your words about your sister that conversation could not touch. Left me in tears. Thank you once again.
Hey very cool web site!! Guy .. Beautiful .. Superb .. Marget Anson Moshell