Lost Valley; How The Young Forget The Old Were Once The Same

Your future son-in-law is the child of Spanish farmers, His touch gentle on the baby bird, fallen far from the tree; His strong hands knowing things only the gardener or mechanic understands, Kind words softly murmuring, like lengthening days of summer. He will give your grandchildren strong, lean legs to run upon. He will teach them dual words for dig, plow, and grandmother; He will show them the soil is as familiar, cool and unfathomable, As the nights endless black, without another name it could be known by- And will hold your hand even as you begin to travel To that other darkening land, where no work gets done, and no children are made, His smile still as warm, as many fertile acres in the lost valley, where they say The old can become young again, their souls taking flight in the newly born.