The frost withered remains of summer’s hope,
have already yielded their lot,
Turning in to lick their wounds,
and count the things they got
The seasons offer no guarantees,
no permanent hand to hold
When the sun is high, it’s time to play,
when it’s gone, it’s cold
There’s not much time to stop and stare,
to wallow in what’s been,
For life calls on and demands its due,
before the turning in.
Ellen, what a perfect way to say farewell. Yes, the sun is gone, but I’m not cold – still warmed by the rays it left behind. Thank you.