Life's echo of time reverberates within the ink that flows from a pen. Memory transcribes images onto a page. The script of life, like a melody, starts to flow. A crescendo of thoughts begin to climb. Dance of confession seems surreal -- so slow. Years of time run short. Days quickly become the past. What we learned to lean on, may never last. Minds now reflect upon, the season, the reason, the rhyme As echoes of time slip by. Nancy M. Godfrey ©2009
