Sculpted rough and craggy,
this man of the florid red granite,
by a roaring, raging river.
Features carved harsh and deep
by his youth too soon gone.
Man of machines,
working steel to steel, night and day
straining,. sweating, swearing to stretch a living,
Children too soon gone.
Somewhere then, an artist’s brush
like sandpaper, smoothed an edge
polished this man of machines
Retired, suddenly, gently retiring
with time to minister to sick friends,
to walk the small town streets
he’d only driven down before.
Time to be proud of his children and their children.
Time to let the cards fall where they may.
Struggling through spring and summer
this man of machines strolled gently into Autumn
mixing wonderfully with the bright
beautifully colored leaves from the trees
he himself had sown.
Finding peace at last
so better late, than not at all.