An Unfinished Letter

The pen is still, the ink is black

The old man's hand and head are slack.

He's sitting at his desk of wood

The writing desk is rough and crude.

How long has he been sitting there?

With wrinkled face and uncombed hair?

Why don't his children come and call?

Looks like they haven't come at all.

He had a wife, or so it seems

The gold band on his finger gleams.

But if he had a wife and child,

They haven't come in quite a while.

Underneath his arms there lies

An old brown paper that was white

When snow fell down and trees were bare

Before the sun shone bright and glared

Upon the earth which soon forgot

This aged man whom God begot.

Upon the paper lay the words

That none but he have ever heard 

When he murmured them so low

To himself so soft and slow.

Before he came to face his death

To breathe his very final breath.

"My dearest wife, my dearest child,

I've been away for quite a while.

Upon the ocean, sailing fast

To come back home to you at last.

To find you here so safe and sound!

But you, dear wife, I never found."

He'd formed the words with trembling tears

He'd been away so many years!

His hair once red had turned to gray

Why should she wait? Why should she stay?

She prob'ly thought him dead and gone

To that fair land where all is dawn.

"Oh my dear wife, I've loved you yet!

I've loved you under each sunset!

I've dreamt of you from first to last,

My dreams of you still holding fast!

Through every storm through every sigh!

I've watched the earth go rolling by. "

Gretchen Emily Wolaver