Sunday afternoon, the leaves are falling , <br /> through the curtains tightly closed, as not to glare, <br /> ' the sun creeps through and brightens up that darkness, <br /> Where an old man sits and rocks his wooden chair. <br /> <br /> His years are maybe two, and well he knows it - - - <br /> Yes, he is dying now and doesn't even care, <br /> because, he knows he lived his life the way he wanted, <br /> And he sees that as he rocks his wooden chair. <br /> <br /> There is so much he could have done, <br /> and now he sees that, <br /> but, for times gone past, he feels no despair, <br /> For in his day, he was as good as anyone ... <br /> - - - most likely, better ... <br /> And he relives that - - - As he rocks his wooden chair !<br /><br />Barry Van Allen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wooden-chair/
