those people walking
in their "golden years",
as if their lives
had really just begun,
their bodies only
telling autumn lies
that they refuse to hear.
I
love to see
those
souls who walk
a
sanguine mile. . .
the
whole way through,
a
new-born smile
in
everything they are
or
ever want
to
be and do.
I
love to feel
the
hope that saunters
in
the breeze
of
inspiration
in
the life
of older trees,
their
outer rings
ephemera
of
inner spring.
Anne
Bryant-Hamon
©
March 7, 1999