A year seems such a short unit of time
When filtered through the sieve of memory:
365 days of rhyme
And reason, four seasons, as seen through me.
But we’ll only see seventy, eighty,
And the first few of those beyond recall,
Hidden from sight in clouded infancy,
Repressed perhaps, waters too rough to trawl,
And by old age the mind is apt to crawl.
And so these years belonging to our prime
Are long and rich and of high quality,
Each day another deep red rose petal.
I hope, therefore, that my daily words chime
With your love of life’s finite mystery.
Wed 5 Sep 2007
No comments:
Post a Comment