|Twenty-six whistles in the wind,|
Well aware of bitter times ahead.
Even in the midst of winter snow,
Needing all the woodcraft he might know,
The young man has no fear or sense of dread.
Yet like us all, of course, he's running blind.
So let the coming years to him be kind,
In which, as good and bad both come and go,
Xerophytes will bloom, by deep springs fed.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon