He is old — an old, very old man. He is as old as the mountains defining the eastern horizon. As old as sea, dancing perpetually along the western shore. Old as a stone in forest or meadow. Old as a stone caressed by the musical flow of river. An old man as old as the eldest tree. As old as the origin of human memory.
In sunlight the old one sits deathless in a golden glow. In moonlight the ancient is meditative crystal, a Zen garden personated of silver-white.
People come from all around to visit him. People come with food and gifts. Women — young lovers and mothers desire to touch and transfer some portion of his magic to their lives and little ones. Brave men seek the wisdom of his eyes. Children play and sing in rings around to receive the blessing of his grandfather hands.
Someday the acorn may remain moribund inside the acorn shell. Sun may explode into a trillion expiring fireflies. Moon may slide down, like drowned Ophelia, sinking into the bottomless well of a black lake.
He too may tragically be gone. He who is may one day be no more. With him will disappear the tales of human joy and sorrow. A day of keening indeed and of lamentation then: a bleak day.
Although today is not that day. Now is but the budding April. Behind April peeps the blush of May.
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