An instinctive thought,
Ancestral song,
Knows no difference,
Right or wrong.
A weathered face,
An old man speaks,
This wise old soul,
Knows what he seeks.
An absent mind,
Once strong and true,
This old man walks,
With thoughts of you.
Once lonely steps,
With endless Sun,
A smile oft-tested,
By things he’s done.
She may never know,
The gift she’s been,
But the old man knows,
A winter’s wind.
He found his life,
In the deepest snow,
He found his love,
When he let it go.
The tear that forms,
As the Red Bird sings,
Let clear streams form,
It’s time for spring.
~TG