Old eyes and an unending view of cynical frost not recalling the newborn simpler days.
A story of spring before the long, cold suppression and firm denial of flowers.
Listening to distant children play before they sounded like parents or commanded others–their little shows of egoic control.
To have lived long and mostly forgotten how anyone lived in a pretty how town.
Yet sometimes the fact of glory asserts itself and remains despite the screens, machine-souls, and agendas.
‘Preserve, preserve’ sayeth the memory of an echoing green. ‘Slow–slow.
It is laughter and love that still matters beyond the self-induced harness-trap of work and the recurring mad hunt for gold before old eyes go blind forever.’