Our Finest Hour
Don't be afraid of your quest to seek us out...
we wait with anticipation; refuse to be timid;
remember the pleasure stepping from lonely
shadows...you child of a Woodstock Nation,
for like Alice in the luxury of her youth,
Socrates and I were curious to hear of
your bottled ideas...corked so tight they
needed to be set free like birds in flight,
we resembled heady fragrance of warm roses,
passion flowed in the flames of our obsession;
even if we weren't cultured enough to appreciate
what those dramatic ramblings were really about,
like Weeping Willow branches catching a breeze,
we too had limbs so eager to express and please;
weaving from one scene to another – aspirations
to perform that enveloped our every waking hour,
libertarian am I...soul free but in need of direction,
filling this teenage void with defined dedication...
like the petals once closed now open on a flower,
we continue to bloom at best in this our finest hour.