The old man plods toward senescence
On the sheltered path of his thought.
He thinks only what he can sense,
Senses only what he's been taught.
The trees on the path were planted
Decades ago as a windbreak.
Their trunks have been slightly canted
By dumb and insistent breezes.
Always more asleep than awake,
He follows that path, coughs, wheezes,
And nothing much occurs to him
He hasn’t sensed a thousand times.
Revelation would be a whim
Of these trees, these rustling chimes.
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