How kindly does the oak embrace
her tender features sitting still,
held by iron wrought in place
as if so formed by true love’s will.
Her oak, her iron, manifest
a perch of sweet repose.
Beneath the elm she gently rests
to welcome hearts, to welcome those
so drawn in need of peace,
so called by shaded park side walk,
so pulled to cheat a moment’s tease
or sit in quiet day and talk.
She holds her stance through season’s sway
by summer’s shade or winter’s snow,
‘neath blooming skies or storming gray,
all pleasures of this park she knows.
How honest does this gentle bench
share the hearts who quietly come
to speak of love or hold a hand,
or simply draw the world in sum.
Each day I pass her quietly,
stroke her weathered wood in care,
nod to her politely
and recall the hands I once held there,
the eyes I fell in deeply,
the cooing of the ring neck doves,
the moments spent completely
in the whispered words of love.
She smiles upon me knowing
all the memories I so dearly hold,
that I with mine in showing
give our thanks to growing old…