Thursday, 03 January 2013
By Marc Leavitt of Marc Leavitt's Blog
When young, I thought my grandfather was old,
His hair was white; my father was his son.
His boyhood, long behind him, he re-told
Me stories freighted full of deeds he’d done.
We sat upon the porch those summer nights,
He smoked cigars, and talked about his youth,
Recalling early dreams, and sweet delights,
Before the job of life became his truth.
I’m older now than he was at that time,
And understand the yearnings of his soul,
I’ve run the race, and won it in my prime,
Time passes on, and still we seek the goal.
Age merely shows us all a path to go,
It lights a way to join the passing show
[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]