Brother's 41st

FOR MY BROTHER'S 41st

Late thought's a shame-faced messenger, distracted
By idle pastimes from his path, though sent
Before the vital drama was enacted,
Arriving useless after the event.
It is a tardy, last, fast-fading flower,
Which winter prophecy of dawn's first frost
Cold withers, robbing radiance and power-
The blossom of a purposed beauty lost.
Yet willing message sent, however slow,
Was once intended good before time's doom;
And even fated, final flower may show
Some moment's shining beauty in its bloom.
Likewise, well-wishes, out of time, may be
Still meant from heart, in late sincerity.