Growing Old and Remembering

Sometimes silver like waters run through the whispering secret

of our pastel summers,

it was a peaches and cream winged dream, playing sonnets

in the wind of the eagles, the bouncing rhythms of every blue

note writing songs for us in the sky

sometimes the sterling memory of its ebb is still orchestrating

the band for us, even now in the gray crumblings of time, when

its all we can see.

A yellow wistling sun echoes in the melody of everything we had

Far away from the laughing white snow that falls. We’re no longer

able to hear the howling black night shouting out the stars to empty

the constellations.

Somehow the eyes of time are blinking and we’re wide awake again.