and ambitious ivy sidling up the sides;

mamma's fidgety clock with its ticking arms,

and sissies brown-sugar bear dangling

its legs in the red brick undercurrent.

That basket of spanish moss and mint leaves,

and old pictures of frozen dreams.

But there's the old dusty oak-framed window,

where memories are still fresh and his beard

unspeckled with silver, and his face is firm,

with strong fiery eyes blazing with youth.

But here golden-haired Gabriel mocks with his

bouncing hair and bardic lute,

playing songs of even older times when lives

were toys for God, and old age meaningless.

The angels play their solemn songs and never

crack a smile,

but he's an old and broken man, and his will

last a while.

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