The old gate stood, slump'd and open,
Paint-faded and now frail,
The latch had many years since broken,
Inviting the well-worn trail;

The night held fast against the gate,
Pretending it would stay,
Cherish'd end would not await,
If night could have its way;

Inside the gate--a garden grew,
Adorn'd in rays of light,
Splash'd color in of every hue,
As the sun push'd out the night;

A gentle wind, its breath did call,
This gate into the sun,
And the gate that stood so close to all,
Did share it with the One.

Rare is that new friend who rivals every old;
In constancy and grace--He surely "broke the mold."

Gentle nature, gentle strength:  In you the two are one;
"Common" we have banish'd from this path our true words run.

Turn not away, dear friend, to yield to humbl'd blush,
For we're recounting virtues now, and 'tis not a thing to rush.

Of honesty, and modesty, and patience, we do tell,
These are values none of us could claim to know as well.

A willing ear who listens well to ev'n small complaints,
And yet will sing the same refrain unburden'd by constraints.

Those quiet acts of kindness are the works that fill your day,
And we delight to follow them, whene'er we've lost our way.

So let us count our blessings then--for bless'd is what we are,
To have your light, so shining here, among us near and far.

Your friends,

Mike and Kelly