The days of man are but as grass
says the book I read, as I stand here
briefly before I am gone.
You flourished longer than most
encompassing history and yet untouched by the darkness.
Your young bride stands here
engulfed by the crowd.
Married in the spring of 1925,
a short time to watch three generations rise.
At the age of ninety-four you could still shoot rabbits,
with the old gun that stands in the corner.
Three weeks ago I saw you putting up a fence
near the home you never left.
Remembering the season of 1920
when the team won the cup
you now declare the innings closed.