The Old Wooden Bench

An old wooden bench made by a father's skillful hand
Made for three children, so they need not stand

It stood by the table, as the children they grew
Made by a Grandfather, I never knew

The bench holds stories it can never tell
But ask the people who used it, they remember well

It holds years of laughing, learning and growing
Made by a Daddy, whose love was overflowing

The bench was given to me earlier this year
By my Aunt whom I hold, oh so dear

The bench now belongs to me and my children
I hope we can continue the family tradition

A tradition of love, laughter and care
The old wooden bench will continue to share

And as my grandfather watches from his home up above
I hope he sees the bench and feels my love

Missy Cobb
11-2000

	


This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, William Jennings (Bryan) Mainer