No snow, no rain, no wind, just grey.
My gift to me on my last birthday ...
Halfway Somewhere
Between your "middle ages",
And one foot in the grave,
There is a middle ground of sorts,
Not anyone would crave.
It is a gray place, notably,
For gray-haired folks to dwell,
To think their gray thoughts silently,
And ponder on a spell.
The land between your youthfulness,
And what may yet transpire,
Filled up with empty yearnings,
Of ambitions not grown higher.
The warming glow of sunrise,
Upon one's back at morn,
While on the dim horizon,
Dark shadows stand forlorn,
And while the sunlight brightens,
Our eyes grow dim to match,
Such that the future clearly hides,
The hopes we hope to catch.
We persevere to follow,
Each step beyond its mate,
Until we stand at our path's end,
To gaze upon a gate.
What burden have you borne,
To lay upon the morrow?
Has gladness been your gift in hand,
Or is it one of sorrow?
For all this journey serves the need,
Of piling up life's treasure,
The coin delivered at the toll,
Is what your life will measure.
NicknamedBob . . . . . February 27, 2010