The Elderly

The leaves are stiff
with winter’s breath
frozen-dripped in formaldehyde.
And all the trees
stripped bare
like an elder’s hair
are withered in my eyes.

For most seasoned folk
no longer bloom
or hold sure scarlet flush,
lustre in the yearning green
or spring sweet May lush.
But their wooden bones
still stand on
like mud worn soldiers
emaciated.
Erected but skeletal forms
bowing feeble-faded.

Yet solid by me in bitter frost
my Grandfather is rooted.
Face wrinkled deep oaken brown
but leaves gleam so unmuted!
He is still here
in snow shaked locks
and zest like August fire,
keen mind triumphant- unforgot
and in wit we all admire.