Something about the death in life,
Passing petals waning fanfare,
To the harmony of soft frames,
Robed in light wreathed in green,
The trees look young in their old age.

Pull up a chair or rather a sofa to a beanbag small,
To read the open book and become likewise,
To open up in friendship and be read a little more,
A great gift is a band of brothers,
Such is a seed for mighty men to sprout,
The soil for life in all its fullness,
Indeed for life in His name and all its fullness.

Long shadows dip into the swirling buckets of blue,
The darkened trees reach up and paint the sky,
And a beautiful cyan urfurls into navy,
I see childhood marbles in the shades,
Rolling over thread-bare carpets,

And striking fast and true on scattered glass between,
My father grafted memories so,
From when he was a boy like me,
And scattered gleaming blues and reds,
By the gutters and on the side unseen,
They bounce better on the rigid bricks,
But now we play on carpets clean.