The Park Bench's Chronicle of Passing Seasons and Lives

I stand weathered, my timber worn and deep, 

A silent promise, that the seasons keep. 

My sturdy frame, etched by the sun and rain, 

A quiet chronicler, again, again. 

I am the Park Bench, in this cherished green, 

A living history, of the human scene. 

I know the lovers, carving names so small, 

Beneath my surface, answering love's call.

The elderly, who sought my gentle grace, 

To find a quiet moment, in this peaceful place. 

Their sighs, their murmurs, in the rustling leaves, 

The tapestry of comfort, my old heart receives. 

The children's laughter, echoing so clear, 

As tag was played, dispelling every fear. 

Each passing face, a chapter understood, 

A silent witness, in this neighborhood. 

I watch the blossoms burst, then fade and fall, 

The winter's stillness, answering nature's call.
My wood remembers, every touch and plea, 

A silent record, for eternity. 

Vignettes woven, through the changing light, 

From fragile dawn, to velvet, star-filled night. 

The first shy kiss, the tear-strewn, sad farewell, 

The quiet reading, held beneath my spell. 

A tapestry of human experience, deep and vast, 

My silent chronicle, forever built to last. 

I hold the echoes, gentle, soft, and true, 

Of countless lives, both old and ever new.

- Khushi Kaul