When silver threads creak with first frost
And summer thought in mists are lost
I wonder if you’ll count the cost
Or blindly hide from reason
When nights bleed into shortened days
And stars no longer light your way
So willingly you choose to stray
and blindly protest treason
No one to watch, no one to keep
Your candle burning while you sleep
And memories sink into the deep
Lost in the cold, dark freezing
Your stories ink washed from the page
And meekly without pain or rage
The curtain falls on empty stage
At closing of your season
That’s a stirring poem Michael and you picked a perfect photo to go along with it.
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Thank you linda
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