Do we get used to being alone 
On robbing star-bright solitary nights, 
Childhood not quite over but close 
To being erased from the blackboard 
Of innocence, when dusty roads will cease
 To bring an old bicycle to 
An orchard of overflowing peaches.
  
Do remember the last time 
We held our mother’s hand in childhood, 
We do recall bare feet in grass, 
The rain-wet feet of late summe 
Ever so softly tickling tender soles— 
We do, we do remember, approaching 
The garden of old age’s fallen leaves.