Nothing was ever quite so ripe
As that: the muddy drainage pipe.
So still atop the house it sat,
Perhaps, it even housed a rat,
Though I, through cornered eyes, did see
What I’d never thought as beauty.
Mighty but muddy so it stood;
Cast to protect that old oak wood
For which the years had been so kind,
For such a pipe is hard to find,
Yet to the flood, which has no end,
Condolences, so will it send.
To the seasons, it lays as prey
But never so a word to say,
But for duty—it wears it well—
Yet never but a thought of hell,
For such these things, of mortal mind,
Pass not for such eternal kind.
Its perch has seen the home of few,
For years pass, and will pass on through
Without but the glance of an eye,
And so if it could, it would sigh
For if not to be noticed then
Forgotten, till found once again.
It is to say the years pass by
Like leaves, so to await to die,
By which the tree once firmly held
To life—now so wistfully felled
By fate, who knows no end, nor truth
For why nor how we fade from youth.
So to the weathered pipe I saw,
Riddled and drawn with every flaw,
‘Tis not the way by others sight
Which sets things straight, nor makes them right,
But by the way through time you live—
To keep the light by which you give.
So, if upon a drainage pipe,
I hope, its way, you do not gripe
But consider its current state—
If broken, so relinquish hate—
For it is not so unlike us;
Awaiting death—it will be thus.