The Watcher

Old, feeling ancient,
He sits on his porch
Rests on his porch swing
Grizzled brown mountain cur
Curled up by his side.
Weary, bleary, rheumy
Eyes fixed on the road.

Watching, patiently waiting
Sitting so quiet, so very still

The soft, rythmic snoring
Of his worn little dog
Is the only sound to hear.
Way down yonder,
Far piece down the road
The sound of an engine
The dust rising from the road
Beat up old Ford truck
Shakes, rattles, rolls
Comes closer, closer
Slow, passes by.
Old man, most ancient
Throws up a hand
Driver responds
Nod, touch of the hat.
Truck rumbles and gone.

Old, feeling ancient,
He sits on his porch
Rests on his porch swing
Grizzled brown mountain cur
Curled up by his side.

Weary, bleary, rheumy
Eyes fixed on the road.               Watching, patiently waiting

Looking back along the path

I often sit and dream, think of the roads taken and not.
Not a great poet, I, nor a philosopher wise
Just a weary traveler who looks back
Sees the road behind
The choices made, the road less
And more traveled.
Then I wonder, I drift in possibilities
Of what could have been
Should have been, might have been.
If we could go back,
You and I, retrace our path,Walk backward in our footprints
And stand at that place
Where roads divide...
Would we stop and consider well
Our paths, think on these things
Or run recklessly toward the roads
We know, we are secure in?