Fathers’ Day is drawing nigh,
When thoughts will wax paternal,
And winds of time make mem’ries fly,
Like pages of a journal.
The pages turn and turn again,
For wind is never heeding,
And time will stop for ne’er a man,
It listens not to pleading.
The stroke of noon, the stroke of night,
The stroke of blindness, stealing sight,
The stroke of apoplectic plight.
The stroke of time constricts the flight.
© 2006 by Walden.
