Not lately, do I see colorful crepe
Paper steamers twirling in sun warmed air,
Hung from a tall flag pole, centered out front.
Music's a must, if not a radio, records.
Through the magic of memory, many
Years disappear, seventy-five long ones.
The golden time of youthful impression,
Elementary school, up there, top the hill.
May First, May Day, somewhere begins summer,
Somewhere, end of winter. Pivotal day
In the scheme of seasons, not calendar.
Hair combed, the girls interweave the streamers.
Grumbling, the boys reluctantly pitch in,
As teachers play conductor-director.
All look forward to that last bell, "School's Out".
Time, as a vine, withers as it's climbing.
Young impressionable days dissipate
Into the far off zephyrs of heaven.
Lost, but to be resurrected for thee,
By me, pulled from temporal recesses.
Ronald C. Downie