|Twenty-seven is a time of glory|
When one can go a' sailing with the wind.
Each day remains a wonder in the making,
Neither rare nor simply for the taking,
The sort of miracle one leaves behind.
Yet one is still considering one's story.
Sing, then, of water dimpled with delight,
Each black lagoon sweet dappled in the sun,
Veiled by passions tender in their yearning.
Eventually, the days of youth are gone,
Nor would one trade one's wisdom for their light.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon