On a cool Spring day
as rain teases the pavement
I throw my arms around memories:
Sweet green grass
Me a child in England
A swing with a rickety wooden seat
Wide white steps in a park
A tennis court, deserted and still…
Quiet misty park
with a silken pond
willows and swans
seats for resting and dreaming.
I remember that park
as I remember old lovers.
They blend together
A sweet place to go to
Somewhere inside me
where there is
only peace and good feeling
with myself and the world.
Old places, and me,
as rain so softly
teases the pavement.
Dad Was Right
(Thoughts on Growing Old)
I awaken each dawn and plan my day:
I’ll do this, and this, and this, I say.
But actions speak louder than words, as you know,
And no matter how hard I try, I’m too slow.
The hurrieder I go, the behinder I get.
My quota of chores will never be met,
Given the pace I so carefully tread,
And I wonder why I got out of bed.
There must be an answer to this situation,
I say to myself, in deep concentration.
I think of my parents and how they would cope,
And this thought provides me some measure of hope.
Whenever I worried about work to be done
(Being overworked is never much fun),
My dad would say, “Now don’t you fret:
There’s all next week, and it’s not been touched yet.”
And so in conclusion, let me tell you this:
I’m going to give some of these chores a miss
Until next week. I’ve seen the light.
It’s not touched yet. My dad was right.
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