the birds still sing

 
 
 
 
...in a place where winter
never arrived.
 
...where the sun never left  
the sky.
 
...where the days long hours
never lost hope.
 
...and the talk is as warm
and genuine as new borne
spring.
 
it is there,  
where the birds
still sing;
we will sit,
sip from the
cup of
memory,
 
we will speak  
of nothing in
particular,
 
and everything  
that makes
for the
living