A gray old man, sat on the bench,
Watching the birds singing in the trees.
Sometimes he'd sing along,
Whistling in the breeze.
A cardinal, beautiful, and bright,
Came along, and sat on his shoulder.
It sang in his ear, and he'd match her tune.
Whistling in the breeze.
They began to meet on that bench,
Every mourning, that fall.
Singing together, the very same tune.
Whistling in the breeze.
Until one morning, no man appeared.
Instead, two cardinals met on that bench.
Singing the same song, they always did.
Whistling in the breeze.
They sang the last cardinal song,
On that beautiful autumn day.
Before they both flew off together.
Whistling in the breeze.
The bench sat alone all winter,
Covered in snow, and frost.
Through the park cold wind blows a mourning tune,
Whistling in the breeze.
Come spring, no cardinals sang,
But two children sat together,
Feeding the birds,
Whistling in the breeze.
The two children read,
Upon that bench, in silver,
"In memory of Our Sweet Song,
Whistling In The Breeze."
Author's Note:
My mother said when she dies, she wants a bench in her name for her and my father to share. So out came this poem. There are many benches, and trees gifted to the city park like this, and it's a wonderful treasure for the parks, and the city.
