Eva's Song

There is one Saturday afternoon in late June
that I will never forget.
It's like lyrics that light the way for
the notes of its song.
It's like the wick has a mind of its own,
and I can be warmed by its light
as I stand by the opened gate.

Time has smiled and shown its face to
the young, but it's something so hard to
Grasp.
I can be mature in my tour around
the outer gate, but walking through
your field is not innate.
One has to live through it to understand
the meaning of Winter.

I know that my thoughts are not the
Means to climbing the mountain of
understanding:
I can stand, but cannot walk;
I can hear, but cannot talk;
I can think, but have never thought;
I can write, but have never wrote
a poem for Eva that exhales the
notes of her Song.