She was a special person I always cared to
know, for our lives would intermingle no
matter where we would go or where we
would be.
She was always a shadow or an image in
my mind or a faint and hazy memory that
life had erased with time.
The days went by, the weeks rushed on,
and before I knew it a year was gone. Then
I looked up and 50 years were gone.
If from life you take the best, and in life you
keep the jest, if love you hold, no matter how
the years go by, no matter how the birthdays
fly -- you are not old. But if your ambitions'
fires are dead -- then you are old.
It is the human touch in this world that counts,
the touch of your hands and mine which mean
far more to the fainting heart than shelter and
bread and wine.
For shelter is gone when the night is over, and
bread lasts only a day, but the touch of a hand
and the sound of the voice sing on in the soul.
Jon York 2024