The Tin Man stands on the brink of history, his gaze cast to and fro. He watches the ripples in time, as his young wards grow and change. He is patient in his observance, an inch here are there, voices changing octaves, minds expanding. What once was trepidation or curiosity about him, slowly fades until they barely notice, but he does.
There is a constant flow of new children coming and others leaving, he stands by the stream content. Does he wonder where they go? Some come back on occasion, and others when they have little ones of their own. On days when it rains, tears plink as they drip, knowing they will not come out to play today.
The silent golem remembers a time before his creation, in pieces. A fullness in his cans and pipes, until the day of discard. Watching as his maker, took each pieces with care, putting it in just the right place. Granting him new life, then giving him the greatest gift to watch the same, within those that see it with fresh eyes.
Thoughts on a statue that stands in the courtyard, by the playground, at my son's school. I don't know the artist, maybe a student themselves, giving back to the institution, teachers and friends that gave to them.