The exquisite evenings - they don't grow old.
Caressing breeze, the slant of evening sun
That shines through blades of grass, turning them gold,
The early flowers hinting what's to come,
And all the azure covered world inhales
Gently, gently, celebrating all
That is, has been, will be: and all is well,
All is whole and hears creation's call.
This is the gift of being - just this: be.
Summer will come and burn you to a crisp
And winter bring its frozen misery,
But there will always be days just like this,
When all the ragged pieces float, align,
And bond as one in this: the hour benign.