Park Bench of My Childhood
I went back recently to the park of my childhood,
Where I once sat on a worn old bench with my father . . .
And as I walked the winding path I saw the old bench,
Down by the flowing river and I caressed the wood and wept;
Stroking all the beautiful flaws, it whispered to me of memories,
And I was taken back to another time when I had felt the warmth;
I rested on the bench fingering the worn surface with love,
Wondering how many have caressed this old wood, weeping.
________________________
August 29, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/Park Bench of My Childhood
Copyright Protected, ID 08-704-648-29
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the Standard contest, Sense of Touch,
sponsor, Nette Onclaud, Judged 2015
Third Place
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