Past is past, and if one remembers what one meant to do and never did, is not to have thought to do enough? Like that gather- ing of one each I planned, to gather one of each kind of clover, daisy, paintbrush that grew in that field the cabin stood in and study them one afternoon before they wilted. Past is past. I salute that various field. Submitted by Larry Bole
Added: 29 Jun 2002 | Last Read: 21 Sep 2014 12:05 PM | Viewed: 7220 times
A PoetryNotes™ eBook is available for this poem for delivery within 24 hours, and usually available within minutes during normal business hours.
ON SALE - only
For more information...