Another season gone? So passes time..

So much the moments turn to years,

A stream of gently flowing cares.

And have I changed? Alas, is there no sign?

Yet this one thing is seen, that wisdom grows

Which is more fragrant than the reddest rose.

What shall I do this day? How shall it be?

I’ll spend this day, an hour of sweetest mirth.

In this fine way I’ll celebrate my birth.

For Amy, an employer August 8, 1998