The Three Of Us

The one with the shortest stick tries to make the most waves.
The middle child was wise and mild. The first one, wild, maybe just misunderstood.
The last one stood but always missed.
In the end. It doesn’t matter as they stayed together.
Learning to compromise as the body grows older.

Remember the picnics in the park, by the creek, sandwich in hand.
Remember the feeling of protection down the street hand in hand.
Remember the burnt orange sky casting layers of soft warmth from a sleepy sun.

As we walked around the dark waters covered by green moss.
I can still see the lavender flowers bloom from far off.
It’s those memories that I remember as I see the three of us together…. and I am grateful.

mjz