Our book is written like a summer’s day,
Hearty its weather, inviting its length,
Its chapters are running showers-like way:
Their short stormy course is mending out strength.
And yet as fine as the sunny-locked bright
Daylight of writing beholds its contents,
A page in the centre is always in fright
That read and then turned, is where it all ends.
And when we are moving at life’s rapid speed
Dew also wanes off the grass that rays kiss –
The instant of time, once gone, yes, we need
Unweather’d astuteness to think of the bliss.
But when we turn pages, they don’t fall apart
They rest in this book and some in our heart.
Paula
