When still a young child you played with toys
to create stories when by yourself,
but then you grew up, (as do some boys)
and the toys went to a closet shelf,
yet you never really stopped playing,
trading the toys for words and knowledge
and images, too, each new plaything
a hobby horse to ride to college,
and ride beyond, for life can be bland
when you work so much each joyless week
and find magic only sleight of hand
as you move along a losing streak,
and so you play with words, as you may
the action figures amongst the dust,
trying to imbue each weary day
with the joys lost to old age and rust.
How like children in full run
neath the ever-fixed sun,
and the daylight hours never done.
How like finches in the sky
twittering love’s lullaby
over the barley and the rye.
How like gold koi in the lake,
scales sparkling while wavelets wake
and eternity in their make.
How like the buck and the doe,
leaves above, lilies below,
frolicking wherever we go.
How like a husband and wife,
forever this lovely life,
never fearing Time’s reaping scythe.
When high or low, green or gold,
we are as children grown old
as the Summers of true love hold.
Should it end, this Summertime,
and chill to a colder clime,
yet would love glow gold on the rime.