From Kansas plains the autumn flees,
Before iced thrust of winter's snows,
Frost's crystal flakes kiss barren trees,
Sans summer clothes, shed weeks ago,
On garden's path, God's palette's faded,
Hued petals to the earth returned,
Landscape brown and spirits jaded,
Bright tints of life, the cold has spurned,
Persophones to depths is taken,
Within her arms, the primrose flowers,
As mankind waits with faith unshaken,
Rebirth of life, come springtime showers.
No flowers in my yard remain,
As winter cold has touched the land,
But then my son, I can't explain,
A primrose red, does hold in hand,
"Where did you find this flower dear?"
I ask my son in wondered awe.
"Out by the tree, primrose was near,
I was out playing, when I saw."
"This just can't be," I said aloud,
For I'd just come, from by the tree,
"You must be kidding," I allowed,
I was just there, I did not see.
And then these words, son spoke to me,
"With eyes of child, you gave no looks."
There are some things, adults can't see,
Some lessons learned, come not from books.
[This message has been edited by Mike (edited 12-09-1999).]