A poem of our days


My word how time passes by, the days moving with the speed of hummingbird wings,

As the babies who listen to our lullabies, leave the notes of the last song they sing.

Echoing in the hallways and the bedrooms, as they pack their bags and wave so long. So long, see you soon. Maybe that might be.

So long, but oh so very short… that distance in between.

When we can call them our very own, and not someone else’s.

But it turns out that way, and it’s a natural thing.

Like a long cold old winter, that turns into spring.

Always moving forward as we catch a fleeting glimpse,

and turn it into memory, a color of love that age can’t eclipse.

By Larry Bowers.

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