The
time is a May morning,
the
dew still in the grass,
never
too early to start
over
again,
and
with the passing of days
and
years
measure
what we’ve lost
by a
yardstick of what
we
shall gain,
as
love connects us
without
missing a beat,
a
rhyme,
a
chance to go on caring
till
we reach the borders
of
our lives.