Produce waits for preparation,
Bottles lined up clean and hot.
Knowing that if time eludes me
All of it will waste and rot,

Little voices call behind me
Beckoning to read and play.
Knowing that as time moves forward
Invitations fade away,

I choose to save the fleeting moment,
Leaving bottles empty still.
Fruit will come another season;
Childhood memories never will.

Anna M. Molgard

©2008 Faithsong Publications, L.L.C.
This piece may be copied for noncommercial use.