Seems so strange how all the small things
Always make me think of you
Not the diamonds or the roses
Nor the great times that we knew
It's the little bluebird feather
Which you brought me one spring day
And the windchime tinkling softly
Placed with love in our pathway
It's that rose bush that you planted
And those old gloves you laid to rest
With their weathered brown dirt color
Many hours they attest
And that beat-up boat out yonder
That you loved so very much
All these things that made me love you
For our life was made of such
Tis not wealth in love that matters
It is really quite mundane
For it's the small and not so glamourous
Don't you find that rather strange?

By Dolores Ryan Rutland
©copyright 9-4-1999