Riding home from a long trip
a lonely day out in the wild
hand tiring from steering's grip.
I count the years which time has piled.
My mind is filled up with the past.

At last my mail box comes in sight
as the daylight fades to dark
and the full moon rises round and bright
shedding its light cold and stark.
lunar shadows forming fast

Out of my truck and through the door
camo coat hung on its hook
smile curves my lips as oft before
as Susan give a welcoming look
which turns thoughts to the now at last.

And in her lap a baby lies
the daughter of my oldest son
a sleeping form with tight closed eyes
whose history has just begun.
She drags thoughts to the future not yet cast.

Abigail Margaret Holliday January 2, 2019