top of page
Search

Old Soul

  • Dec 24, 2025
  • 1 min read

He puts his talent to a lonely skill

Working at what never comes easily

Truth answers only when his heart is still

A hunter who must set the hunted free.

The old soul has inhabited the night

Resting awhile but not to fall asleep

He leans forward to touch a stream of light

And labors only when the cost is steep.

On his palm the lines speaking of age

Say nothing of what he has given life

What he was earned sometimes without a wage

With great precision, sober with a knife

Exacting as he takes the time to hone

His handiwork, the fruit his job to pare.

In doing this he does so when alone

In secret only when his heart is bare.

 
 
 

Recent Posts

See All
A Memoir

The waves speak of the ocean’s mystery You play flute beneath the ceiling of stars So close to Heaven on the lifeguard’s chair When I with my soft voice sing harmony I gather shells and stones with pr

 
 
 
Beauty

Her beauty must be managed with a glove For beauty is a thing she’s guilty of Blooming without a mirror in her hand Something the rose can never understand Whose beauty shares a garden with the thorn

 
 
 
At Eleven

Impatient to be twelve at eleven The dawn of puberty still unbroken That maiden morning of adolescence Marking the passage of all innocence With flowers pressed inside a diary The pages turned to repe

 
 
 

Comments

bottom of page