To the boats that have yet
to sail and dock,
to lines and meters
and hands on a clock,
to color that's caught
on the artist's smock,
to childhood memories
and building blocks.
Here's to the rain
that pebbles your face,
to the circus and clowns
and lions in cage,
to the hero, his journey,
and a damsel to save,
to dreams that are seen
on the crest of a wave.
A salute to the trees
and the air and the ground,
to the violin strings
and their doleful sound.
Drink to the sphere
and it's on-going round--
This one's for the lost
who will someday be Found.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
To the boats that have yet
to sail and dock,
to lines and meters
and hands on a clock,
to color that's caught
on the artist's smock,
to childhood memories
and building blocks.
Here's to the rain
that pebbles your face,
to the circus and clowns
and lions in cage,
to the hero, his journey,
and a damsel to save,
to dreams that are seen
on the crest of a wave.
A salute to the trees
and the air and the ground,
to the violin strings
and their doleful sound.
Drink to the sphere
and it's on-going round--
This one's for the lost
who will someday be Found.
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