The years take toll of all our yesterdays,
Erasing from the slate of memory
The record of our youth; but yet to me
One portion is inviolate and stays
Untouched by time. As long as I may live,
I’ll not forget a narrow stretch of beach
Where ocean fingers fumbled forth to reach
The white and tumbled dunes; where, sensitive
To wind’s caress upon my face, I went
Along the sand, made magic by the foam,
Toward the waiting welcome of a home
In which I found the meaning of content.
Those things are constant, limitless and true;
As constant as remembered love for you.
Copyright © 2004 Robbins Keith Fowler