The old man is lonely.
He sits.
He sips.
His garden grows grimly.
In gnarls.
In fits.
I stop by each winter.
To watch.
To wait.
As he sits at his table.
One cup.
One plate.
I know his routine.
He wakes.
He mourns.
It was once not this way.
Not sad.
Not forlorn.
Today I found it.
The silver.
The shine.
I thought to keep it.
For me.
For mine.
But I saw his face then.
His eyes.
His frown.
I decided to share.
To drop
To down.
As he startled he heard it.
A tink.
A ching.
He found my small prize.
My glimmer.
My ring.
As if spellbound he stared.
Up here.
Up high.
I cawed back from above.
My branch.
My sky.
His eyes filled with water.
Like then.
Like before.
With the joy of the past.
Never lost.
Nevermore.