I love to walk the fields at dawn,
barefoot through the dew.
To sit and watch the rising sun
turn the dark sky blue.
Some days are bright with promise,
like a budding tree.
Some are dark and blow right by
like an autumn leaf.
Each day is a gift we’re given,
fragile, like fine glass.
Ours to mold and try to hold
before it hurries past.
© 2000 Guy Workman