Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Answer to Prayer

It can't work that way, dear.
You can't make the call.
If you did, we'd be angels,
with a penchant for fall--
The time of the year
That ages with grace
The bright golden trees
and the lines on your face.

But winter will come
and it's just too cold, dear.
The lambs will out-spring us.
In summer, we'll wilt.
There's no fun in dragging
yourself through all that.


If good things never came to an end,
we would never meet again.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Comments are always welcome, unless you are going to be mean, in which case you can go straight to hell.

Please leave at least some form of name so I don't get all paranoid and think you are a stalker or my mother.