In our youth, life is seen as grand.
Then comes age and the withered hand.
We look...we wonder...
We struggle to remember
The long ago days
When skating was a craze.
But the eyes only see through a gray mist,
Sitting on the bench, unable to recall the first kiss.
With a ragged and heavy sigh,
Hope is tenuous, maybe a lie,
As we look to the leaves falling,
Unable to hear the young one calling.