When the flowers fall  

And the mourning doves have ceased their songful cry —

This isn’t a lullaby. 

It’s far from lilting

Whimsical and free,

But the songs we sing

Embroider our lives 

For eternity. 

Like the sweet smell of cinnamon,

Or the earthy scent of a garden’s bloom,

Our passions

Never seem to only

“Pass” through. 

Passing is never easy, 

It requires something in us to fade,

Like our childish wonder, 

Or the lullabies we’ve named. 

I won’t let this one slip away, 

If it carries the last of my youth, 

It will always carry 

A token of truth.