Enlighten me the old man prays.

My old habits,
worms in the rain,
my old hopes,
children that aged.

And from perched outside upon a withered oak,
a birds nest responded,
a comforting reproach.

Look at me here,
sticks, hair,
once bright flowers,
dulled by the years,
drafts and leaks,
crowned with sharp little points,
this is my makeup,
faithfully joined.

Sticks and hair,
their ambiguity entwined,
a bedding of safety,
a purpose refined.

Flowers of gray and brown,
with patches of mold,
a heraldry of a kind,
gifted to those new in the fold.

Biting edges,
symbolizes the dare,
of falling then flying,
wings prepared.

If worms are your habits,
they feed new life well,
and if hopes are your children,
their song is yours to retell.