How well I remember, when youth seemed eternal
and the world was all shining and new, at least it was for me.
The nights were merely bridges to days filled with promise,
and tomorrow with its magic, was as far as we could see.

Ever seeking new adventures, we were invincible,
Living proof of the adage, youth is wasted on the young.
The sweet taste of freedom flowed rampant through our veins,
and lingered sweetly, reminisce of honey on our tongues.

An old abandoned car that sat down in the pasture,
took us in our reveries to far and wondrous places!
Dusty little warriors, victorius, from battle,
koolaide mouths, and sticky fingers, windblown hair and suntanned faces.

The summer we all had chicken pox, and measles back to back,
two weeks we spent indoors, rain beating on the window sills.
Our Mark Twain summer, the raft we built that wouldn't float,
and Daddy taught us how to build a flutter mill.

The club house we built under the chinaberry trees,
with the words MEMBERS ONLY painted on the door.
We tacked cardboard on the walls and pasted up pictures,
and used burlap bags to make rugs for the floor.

With the waning weeks of summer, the days grew bittersweet.
And a haunting sense of sadness signaled the beginning of the end.
For yesterday is just a memory, today is all there is.
Tomorrow, but a promise, written on the wind!

                                   By Charlotte Perry