They cry, they beg, they come out from within the wrinkles folds of their lives after reaching winter in their lives.
The summer warm of love was gone when fall's first chilly breath put gray hair on the side of the head, and we sat on a park bench trying to remember when we looked down a wishing well to see the other end of the world down there, but...
The world had no time for us, too busy to hear or going too fast to talk, yet...even if they didn't wanted to hear

We talk about the rosebuds of May...
and all the flowers that dwelt there
in Grandma's garden, with little pathways
crisscrossing the front yard with
a crazy labyrinth around the water well.

We talk about the first of the warming rains...
and the snow still hanging from the trees
being pull lose by the fingers of the spring,
water melting the ice wrinkles of Old-man-Winter
falling down from the hands above, belonging to a King.

We talk about the return of all the birds...
and all the twigs that they will be collecting
for a nest building after returning to its trees,
the trip seemed not to be that long, after hearing,
from new hatched eggs, small feathers that give a chirp.

We talk about all the returning butterflies...
dancing in a flower's theatre a delicate ballet,
like sorcerer's apprentices mixing here and there,
their own colors with the garden's, and then,
like magic, without a sound they will disappear.

We talk about all the missing times...
letting "the" one love to slip away
when summer was giving sunburning welts,
after running in Grandma's spring garden
with a crazy labyrint around the water well.

We talk about all the the forgotten memories...
when summer's warm started leaning on spring
at the beginning of the month of May,
with summer flower's buds with tainting colors,
in a garden of many smiles on a string.

We talk about all the children's illusions...
when after all the goodbyes were done we tossed
a penny when pasing by the wishing-well,
stopping to look down and see
if the other end of the world was still there.