As I survey my garden of life
not one sprout of hope exists.
Long ago, when spring was in its youth
I was too busy to sow anything of value.
I ignored the prime planting season.
Wild weeds of worthless endeavors
grew and flourished in haphazard fashion
choking out any vision of a fruitful yield.
I kept the seeds of talent and opportunity
tight in my hand.
I let procrastination rule.
Nothing for a fall harvest was planted,
to produce bounty
needed to endure the sting of winters cruelty.
I cannot turn back the pages of life's almanac.
The ember of remorse burns within me.
What I could have done I did not do.
What I should not have done I have done.
My store house is empty.
Now, I understand the grasshopper and the ant.
It IS too late I cannot replant
Spring will never come again.
