Wish for seasons past, the golden, olden days
of yore, a boy at heart bends low to peek
at village denizens, some worn with age,
Some opened new, and “Christmas Tree Shop” sleek.
Remembered flood of youth’s pure joy, he seeks,
Ride sugarplums of hope on HO trains,
Erasing all hypocrisy, he’s meek
and welcoming of quiet peace attained.
Before the tired world returns again,
Before he stands to take his ‘Grandpa’ place,
This momentary, poor man’s dream’s maintained
and savored, all the more, all risk abates.
“Youth’s wasted on the young” some have opined,
Yet time oft blurs the borders of the mind.
The Sunday Wordle: