The climb is long and tortuous, the path with boulders strewn…
The morning covers half of life before we come to noon.
The sun reaches its zenith long before we’ve reached our prime,
And falters not, after its long and logarithmic climb…
But flashes swiftly overhead; its energy now spent,
And races west, horizon bound, where all its fellows went.
The morning now is memories of dim and hazy days,
As afternoon is waning in the parabolic phase.
The piercing rays have vanished as the sun is getting low,
But vision is much clearer in the golden afterglow.
The things we value in our youth and pursue with a lust,
Are seen to be as meaningful as drifting motes of dust.
If we could but see, early on, what is apparent now,
The wisdom that is gained with age, might us in youth endow:
That morning passes slowly, but the evening rushes by,
And while we well may learn the how, we’ll never know the why!
The drapes at last are drawn aside, the waiting sun leaps through,
The lawn’s a sheen of silver, with the early morning dew,
And in the wings, the spectre waits, don’t view him with dismay…
You never know how few are left, reach out… and seize today!