Perhaps it's the boy, in this old man,
That plays in dirt when ever he can.
By playing, I mean, out in the yard,
Where a love of gardening, is not hard,
But a desire to see plants to keep growing.
No matter the fact that it soon will be snowing,
I found that I do not like a Fall chore
Of raking leaves, waiting, then raking some more.

My mind is swirling, racing about,
Trying to be quiet, with nary a chance.
I have pen in hand, writing the thoughts
That are in my head. I try to write
Them down to paper, fast as can be,
For it is now a quarter past three.
That's in the A. M.
Even early for me.

The impact of this life of ours
Is measured, not in years but in hours.

Who are you?
Why are you here?
Where are we going?
I don't know, but will ask
Questions of this ongoing task,
To find the support, I need for thee
So you are healthy, happy and free.