There is that tree in the park,
The one those men converse under,
Of what was, should have been,
Before their loss.
Under a winter sun I once heard them say
The truth while lying all the same,
Of how things were and
How came their loss.
Go hear those men by the tree.
They speak from near the end,
Of love found and lost,
Of what might come,
If love is not lost.
© 2016
There once was a time when age was though of as having obtained a form of wisdom, and for the most part that was true. It seems only recently that age has become an embarrassment.