The stuff of legends is imbued
In the recesses of the rude
And sodden boards of Father Time
Placed there, by careful hands, to climb
Up to the heights of time and space
And to the peaks arrayed in lace,
Fraught with age, knit with purpose,
Sealed with the din of a celestial rumpus.
And furthest up the steady ladder,
A lake of life’s lessons, the sadder
For its depth and for its clarity,
The legacy of faith and charity.
This altitude stands so high
That the sticks of fate holding by
Have run out and can rise no more
Unless someone fashions an Elysian door.