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A Tint Of Rose
I paused to smell the daffodils,
whose petals held no scent,
and perfume of the blossomed rose,
its’ withered fragrance spent.
I stopped to hear the children sing
their verse to deafened ears,
tho’ songs in laughter couldn’t wash
regret from squandered years.
I rested toward the end of day,
to watch the sun descend,
but merely saw the colors fade,
an uneventful end.
Perhaps tomorrow’s dawning light
would burn off hapless woes,
and glasses fogged in gray despair,
could soon be tinted rose.
