Every month has a story to spin.
Every day has a rule to bend.
Oh, that was in ‘63 or was it ‘73, pray tell?
We go to sleep young and wake up old,
And roll down hill like a child on a sled, pell-mell.
The children look like we did once as they glance in a mirror,
And we look like our grandparents who were wiser and dearer.
Yes, the calendar is in total control of our days,
And we are its pawns as with us it plays.
“Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December,
But the days grow short when you reach September,
When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame,
One hasn’t got time for the waiting game.”
© By Phyllis Ann (Starbird55@msn.com)
