Ninety-Two

Ninety-two sits quaintly in a garden,
Intent on living through the awesome day.
No sunshine is direct, but through the trees
Enough is dappled in the gentle breeze
To sing of glory in a muted way.
Yet time itself can sometimes be a burden.

The hours sway like dancers, slow and wanton,
While thoughts flit through the roses as they please,
Open-armed and lithe yet loathe to stay.