The Years
The years go by breeze on vine along
the long circles of time.The telling
of season gives and strips away.Makes
one look at the past reflectng days.
through the interior eye there will
be dreams.The reality of tears on field
and stream.The turning page of age sets
on brisk wings.Living joys and pains
stroke the violin strings.Things beginning
and ending cycle is universal.In our
tumbling existence there is good and
there is evil.So the stories flow with
the passing years.
poem by William Blackman
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