Lime Time

At the age of three, far from me, are you still remembering me, attempting to get a message to me?
Know at fifty-nine, I am trying, not to forget the time, when we would write with the color lime.

Tomorrow my grand-son, I will have another birthday, and it seems, for me, time is slipping
further along, far from your ability to catch up with me
I have tried all I can do to slow the pace, to stay back in the pack, allowing the fleet to take
the prize, knowing greater rewards, I was told, was not to the fast, but the slow.

But no longer do I know, I am weary with the running, the writing, the trying. I could deciper the
scribbling once in time, I knew why the lime was the color, without words we did much speaking,
but now, now, I am just keeping these things within, for it seems such a grim mockery,
to have you taken from me

And someday they say, you shall again come my way. I shall have the lime cut and look forward
to again seeing you pucker, recalling the time, you liked the lime.