Uncommon Sight
To see the world, all the good
as a child at a seasonal faire
counting months in inches grown
and inherited faint-colored hairs.
All days number
three hundred and sixty five
so glad they still are..
same as the nights,
in eternity of a young life
under crackling camp fires
and countless unnamed stars.
We survivors, a wisened few
or perhaps just lucky, know...
a year pass's quickly as summer rain
where dancing steam of scorched pavement
slowly rose.
Trade all your old moments
by my side if you would,
we'll take a daring ride
on swift sled
tomorrow's eyes
never could.
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