Weathered Wood

Weathered Wood

by Tracey

As a young man he spent his time,

Carefree and to hemself,

He roamed the land, over hills and sand,

Determining his own wealth,

In the mountains of his wanderings, 

On a big tree he carved his name,

He left his mark, deep in the bark,

Where he hunted for his game,

As years went by he often,

Returned to the hills he explored,

That tree he would find, for in his mind,

It was symbolic of the land he adored,

Then came the autumn of his life,

He could no longer make the treck,

Though he wanted to, to get up and go,

His old body was quite a wreck,

So he decided to settle down,

And make his own rocking chair,

He devised a plan, for he was wise man,

But for him, there was no way to get there,

You see he wanted to build it,

From the trees of the forest he prized,

But it had been so long, he was sure they'd be gone,

And the thought was futile, he surmised,

So he settled for some old scrap wood,

To fashion his chair as he planned,

And there in the pile, he saw with a smile,

An old weathered log with his brand,

Well he knew it must be a sign,

That to him, his tree was returned,

To create with his hand, with wood from the land,

That was rescued from a forest that had burned,

As he reminisced of his existence,

On his old porch, the chair slowly rocked,

Day by day, time passed away,

Then one evening the old rocker stopped.

Weathered and worn when passing,

Both the chair and his memory,

But life had been good, and he loved the wood,

Where his name is carved in history.

Reprinted from the Starlite Cafe poetry blog. Thanks for reading and for all your comments.