A memory of years gone by.
He laughs in the park, and the new beginnings of life
perk up to hear his old, withered voice.
He is a perennial nearing winter, and I have just begun to bud.
A vernal beauty and a withering flower whose buds remain,
opening gently to impart wisdom of days long past.
He talks of his coming seedtime when he joins the harvest,
and I am yet too young and vernal to understand.