A Dried Rose Poem by David McLansky

I watch my Mentor weep
His hooded eyes fight the urge to sleep;
And yet they question him
To make him speak;
They chide him, as he hobbles weak.


Once his voice was clear and strong
He bristled at the slightest wrong;
He ruled a King firm upon his throne;
He whispers now, he grunts, he groans.

I know it' s hard to accept
That his keen mind is not so adept; ;
Oh his dancing thoughts are out of step,
He struggles as if he's out of breath

His shoulders pinch to support his head
His eyes ten thousand books have read
Where is the wisdom he so merrily absorbed
As he navigates through narrowed doors;

Allow this old giant his repose;
As he shrinks, take in his clothes;
Trim his nails and clip his toes'
Oh where is the majesty of a dried rose