A whispered call to distant dreams,
  And sheltered baths in quiet streams.
The measure of a person's worth,
  My thoughts the minute after birth.
The bitter irony of a bitter end,
  A parting chuckle for a fallen friend.
Just ninety minutes in the sun,
  The breakfast of a lonely nun.

A symbol for the morning after,
  The memory of my father's laughter.
One season with no trace of water,
  The necklace that I never bought her.
Things I've said to peoples' pets,
  The hope on which I've hedged my bets.
An apology that's not been made,
  A favour I have not repaid.

The reason for a burst of anger,
  That one song I never sang her.
All forgiveness ever asked,
  All the glory in which I've basked.
All the wisdom I have earned,
  All the bridges I have burned.
And the finest of this short selection:
  The attainment of perfection.

For all the trinkets life has brought,
  There are many that I hadn't sought.
But as my tree keeps gaining rings,
  I must keep room for useless things.