The Old Man and His Old, Dusty Black Boots
It is autumn, and the cold air bites at the trees.
Light clouds are poised far on the horizon in the dark, early morning sky.
Inside the cabin, an old man begins to arise.
He tends to the fire and wipes the sleep from his eyes.
This is the big day he's been dreaming of for weeks.
Smoke climbs from the chimney, penetrating deep into the starry heavens.
The forest is quiet except for the deer
That amble past the cabin without any fear.
A mighty oak tree sheds its leaves like tears.
Branches shake in the brisk, hyperborean wind in these mountains.
The aged man puts on his favorite pair of blue jeans and a faded flannel shirt.
His old, dusty black boots are sitting in the hallway.
He retrieves them and fingers the smooth, fine grain.
Smiling, he slips them onto his feet and thinks of the day.
The soles of the old, dusty black boots are nearly worn through, and they are covered with years
of dirt.
The old man runs his arthritic fingers through his thin wisps of fine, gray hair.
He scratches his scraggly beard and goes to the kitchen to eat.
It's the same thing as the last 60-some years--hot black coffee, eggs, toast, and little pig meat.
He does the dishes, puts them away, and makes sure everything's neat.
He goes to the living room to take one last look around from his favorite tired leather chair.
There is no computer, nor is there a TV.
Nothing but shelves upon shelves of worn books.
Hard-cover books, soft-cover books, and leather-bound books.
Books with torn pages and all different looks.
The shelves bow down in the middle from years of gravity.
Except for some lights and a small radio, the walls and the tables are mostly bare.
No pictures of loved ones,
Or paintings by artisans.
Nothing but books, and a couple of guns.
The man settles into his old, dusty black boots again as he rises from the brown leather chair.
He nods his head and looks out the window into the dark pre-dawn.
He makes his way across the room towards the heavy door.
The old, dusty black boots mark his steps as they click on the floor.
The gray-haired man stops by a small table and opens the drawer.
He needs to take a couple more things before he is gone.
Inside the drawer are two gifts he got when he was just a kid.
He puts the knife in his faded blue jeans and gently winds the pocket watch.
His father gave him the pocket knife; his grandfather, the watch.
Now it's just the crackling of the fire, the slow beating of his heart, and the ticking of the watch,
Which he puts in his shirt pocket, just like Grandfather did.
The man grabs his deerskin gloves and hat,
Takes one last look around the small cabin, and shuts off the lights.
Flames from the fire flicker on the bare walls, seemingly taking flight.
They reflect off the windows, waltz in the man's eyes.
He takes a deep breath and steps outside onto the welcome mat.
He steps off the porch onto the hard dirt beneath the infinite sky.
The old, dusty black boots already know the trail to take.
They've traveled the path hundreds of times before today.
They're heading higher into the mountains to the man's most beloved place.
The clouds have crawled a bit closer and bring with them the very first pale light.
The man takes his pipe out of his pocket and lights it.
The match drops into the fallen leaves
As gentle fingers of smoke swirl in the breeze.
He inhales deeply and exhales to the trees.
The cherry tobacco smell escapes from the glowing red pit.
The man and his old, dusty black boots continue at a steady pace.
Helios has passed the horizon with the clouds in tow.
The sun is not an enemy, nor is time a foe,
But the old, dusty black boots still steadfastly go.
Some say it's a competition, but the old man knows there's no need to race.
Now the sun's even higher in the sky, and the clouds still trail.
Small beads of sweat form on the man's wrinkled face.
He rolls up his sleeves and slightly slows his pace.
He picks up a walking stick to help him in this place.
It's the first time he's ever needed one, and it makes him look frail.
Finally, after miles of walking, he's near his destination.
Just two more turns and one more small hill.
He can already hear the roaring that gives him such a thrill.
The old, dusty black boots want to run, but he treads steady against their will
When at last he crests the hill and enters his favorite location.
He takes his seat on the ground, leans his back against the trunk of a tall aspen,
And lovingly absorbs the familiar scene.
All the leaves' colors burn like fire except for the towering evergreens.
Vivid leaves ablaze with intense orange, red, purple, and yellow twist and flap in the cold breeze.
A small shiver shakes the man, and he pulls down his sleeves to cover his rough, tanned,
leathery skin.
Crystal water tumbles over a cliff and plummets twelve stories.
Sunlight glistens in the cascading water like a million bright chrome birds soaring against
leaden skies.
The glacial liquid slams into the deep, dark pool created when the earth cries.
A clear river forms, bubbling, gurgling, and splashing as the violent white froth slowly dies.
The sparkling river of silver tears rushes past the man's old, dusty black boots far off into the trees.
Two squirrels romp in the explosion of color that covers the rocks.
High above the dark, serrated edge of the mountain range, an eagle screams.
In the distance, a panther stalks his meal, his exposed teeth gleam.
The old man is happy--he's living what most can only dream.
Above the cliff, a bear is gnawing on berries, and a wolf howls at a fox.
Yellow leaves fall from the aspen to dance at the man's old, dusty black boots.
He deeply inhales the thin, clean, crisp, sweet air,
Sets his deerskin hat by his side, and tousles his gray hair.
He lights his pipe again and long, thin tendrils of gunmetal smoke ascend into the air.
The man is content and waits, nodding in his natural chair near the tree's roots.
The old man, like a dream endangered by the bright ambassador of morning, looks up into the welkin.
The Zephyr causes more colors to fall from up high.
A smile once more crosses the man's face as the clouds finally chase off the sunlight.
White spots appear on the toes of his old, dusty black boots as the first few snowflakes float down
from celestial heights.
And in the man's shirt pocket, the watch, given to him by his grandfather all those years ago,
stops ticking.
Originally written:
September 25-October 3, 1998
Put online:
April 29, 2001
Discussion:
This is simply about an old man who lives a simple life alone. He knows he is about to die, he does not fear this, and he may, in fact, embrace it. He goes to his favorite location and waits for the end to come. This is somewhat how I envision my own death. This poem was published in UWGB's "Sheepshead Revue."
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