The Last Man In Woodstock, Vermont
- The Seasons Of Grief: Chapter III - Poem III -
The autumn sun set softly on the rolling hills, aglow,
He wandered into Woodstock with stories to sow
A man from the city, a past left behind,
Carving out chapters in a state of time
The locomotive left him at the station, with dreams in his heart,
A pen in his hand, he’d make a fresh start
He bought an old cottage where the maples grew red,
And the town whispered, “What brought him here instead?”
The locals were distant, though his smile was warm,
An outsider adrift in their autumnal norm
He joined in the harvest dances and drank cider at dawn,
Late at night, he’d scribble his secrets on the leaves that had withdrawn
So, they said,
“There goes the last man in Woodstock, Vermont,”
“What do you think he does in that cabin at night? What does he want?
He’s the quietest soul this town’s ever seen,
I know one thing: his stories are loud in the alleys between.”
The years tumbled by with a rhythm and a rhyme,
The man grew older, his poems becoming trapped in time
He walked the stone bridges, his words filling the streams,
Living his life between silence and dreams
One night at the inn, he met familiar faces, unknown,
A traveler whose life mirrored his own
He spent all his savings on wine and late nights,
They both filled the Vermont air with fascinating delights
So, they said,
“There goes the last man in Woodstock, Vermont,”
“Who knows, if that man can help his old gaunt?
There he goes, the strangest soul this town’s ever seen,
He and a stranger, could they really be two pines from the same tree?”
Somedays, he was in the square where the gold kissed the green,
With a notebook in hand, and a gaze so serene
He quarreled with the baker, and he pained the local farm,
He befriended the stranger, who played the guitar
Twenty years fell like the leaves from the trees,
His cottage sat silent, and his voice echoed in the breeze
The town carried on, but they spoke of his tales,
A man who arrived to weave words through the vale
The man, now old, looked to the sky and out towards the sea,
I was the one who captured this town, in my quiet reverie
The stranger and I bonded over my ventures this way,
And made a truce to spend together our wandering days
So, they’ll say
“Do you remember the last man in Woodstock, Vermont?”
“He lived for the stories that he so desperately sought.”
“He took all these truths to the grave, kept them all unseen,
He had the greatest time, shaping his dream.”
He had the best time, being the last man in Woodstock, Vermont,
I had my best time, being the last man in Woodstock
