Everything has its place.
We too shall whittle
the future into a nook
where we can grow old,
and watch the melting of days
in the window. I’ll scribble
lines for a book,
which will never be sold.
We’ll accept it with grace,
this quiet time by the little
babbling brook,
concealed from the world
and its bustling daze
and those caught in the middle,
and delight, as we look
at the birches turned gold.