The poems I composed when I was young
were holy, sacred seeds, from soil that sprung,
like field of flowers, all aflame and free,
the backdrop to a life of symmetry.
In youth, my poems were a hallowed host,
thrice blessed by Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
delightful to the eye and to the ear,
gave to each reader rhyme to charm and cheer.
The poems that I wrote in middle age
were pitiful; they putrefied on page.
Their petals pulped, poured poison from my heart,
which festered there from love that did depart.
The poems that I pen in life’s decline
are sunlight soft, mature, like vintage wine,
that I have bottled up to shed like tears
of joy! For love’s come back with twilight years!