The Well Man at Evening’s Door

Evening light differs
From morning’s golden promise
Both bless the same earth

Here stands one man, silver threading his temples, morning mirror showing lines like rivers carved by time’s patient hand. Sixty-seven winters behind, maybe ten, maybe twenty summers ahead—who knows the counting of Creator’s mathematics? Still he wakes each dawn asking the great question: what purpose burns in these old bones?

Well man, good man, but world whispers confusion in his ears. Society machine tells him: retire, rest, fade into background like yesterday’s newspaper. But his soul—ah, his soul burns bright as noon sun, ideas flowing like spring rivers after winter’s breaking. Experience accumulates like treasures in deep caves of memory. Wisdom grows thick as ancient oak roots, spreading underground where no one sees but feeling everything.

This is the great paradox, the beautiful wrestling: body aging like autumn leaves, but mind expanding like universe itself. He knows things now—real things, true things. How love matters more than money-making. How kindness ripples through world like stones thrown in still water. How one well word can heal wounds deeper than doctor’s medicine.

Yet world-machine keeps grinding, making noise: “Too old, too late, step aside for young lions.” But well man knows secret truth—wisdom is not young thing, not hasty thing. Wisdom is patient fire, burning slow and steady, lighting paths for others walking in darkness.

Every morning he rises like warrior preparing for battle, not against enemies but against despair, against the small voice saying “finished, done, nothing left.” No! Life is great story still being written. Each day new page, new possibility for goodness to flow through willing vessel.

Well man at evening of life discovers morning never really ends—just changes color, becomes deeper, more beautiful. Like wine aging in cellar, growing richer, more complex, more valuable with time passing. His purpose not shrinking but concentrating, becoming pure essence of what matters most.

This is why every breath sacred, every heartbeat holy drum calling him forward. Not to great achievements world measures, but to small-great things: listening deeply to grandchild’s story, helping neighbor carry heavy burden, sharing hard-earned wisdom with anyone who stops to hear.

Well man, well life, well purpose—never too late for goodness to bloom, never too old for love to find new ways of flowing. Evening light different from morning light, but both beautiful, both necessary, both blessing from Creator’s generous hand.

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