the empty pages of a baby's book
become history by the end
imprinted with pictures of captured time
they only learn to wisely spend
when salt of hair and frail of finger
and humble of heart and mind
realizing at last the only moments that matter
are the unopened ones left behind
lost like presents on Christmas morn
never knowing the wide-eyed surprise
that slowly crawls across a person's face
unwrapping its paper disguise
for the baby explores what the grown up will question
the unknown that appears before the eye
the baby not caring the reason it's there
the grown up needing to understand why
but for now the pages are empty
and what's to be written anybody's guess
i only hope at the end when asked if they loved their life
they answer with a passionate yes
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