I grew up in a house of boys,
Four brothers strong, and always friends,
Where sleds and toy guns were our toys,
Completing wins our only ends.
My parents were just wonderful,
They took us camping everywhere,
To lakes and forest bountiful,
In all that nature gave us fair.
We would at night in campfire see,
The embers glow before us light,
As tired eyes and joyous we,
Began to dream of morrow’s sight.
With every trial or trail we’d roam,
Find frogs and fish upon our way,
We never thought of going home,
This wilderness was ours to stay.
Fine memories we’ve forged in gold,
Like precious metal in the fire,
And poured and shaped into the mold,
A ring of yesterday’s desire.
We now are aged and time gone by,
And wish we could recapture past,
One only needs to close their eye,
To dream and hold those moments fast.
Life moves and captures our true heart,
With each new memory we hold,
It adds the detail and the art,
And filigrees that edge of gold.
Peter Lowell Paulson
August 27, 2010
No comments:
Post a Comment