I cast my hopes, my prayers, into thy springtime eyes
And now, thirty years later, they look back at me.
The effort, the toil, the sweaty labor
Isn’t seen, but yet it glow.
We are ‘people of character’.
All and sundry wish to know us better,
And yet they know not why.
For we’re not unusual, you and I.
Not rich and beautiful.
Neither so good nor so bad
That it is remarked.
But the laughter flows
And they gather round
To ease their aches at the sound.
Later, alone with our words,
We run through the piled leaves of a warm autumn evening
On into the soft-banked winter beyond.