The Magician in His Last Days

Tired. Worn. Rusted.
Somehow still functional,
still able to open worlds
and release others to fly,
a magician in his last days,
so fragile to everything but appearance,
an antique of sorts,
handmade two generations past,
forged in fire,
drained by generations of use,
able to protect others,
but rarely,
himself.

About this poem

We all know people like this. Maybe you are a person like this. A giver, wonderful, drained, and though unseen, frighteningly fragile.

The picture was taken at the Mill Pond I have written about over the past few days. There is a log cabin there, built by my father and my grandfather the year before I was born.

Tom