One Thousand, One Hundred, and Sixty-three Days

It's been one thousand, one hundred, and sixty-three days
Since an amateur's pen last scratched up this page.
A new time, a new town, new paths have unwound,
Stumbling gracefully toward a middling age.

It's been just over three rapid trips 'round the sun
Since a make-believe writer's quill came undone.
Intending, defending, pretense never-ending,
Through a course that had lovingly been overrun.

It's been thirty-eight voracious calendar flips
Since abandoning this fledgling lyrical courtship.
Although sometimes unyielding and often misleading,
The scribe abides, rejoining the trip.

For the next one thousand, one hundred, and sixty-three days
Will unveil friendships, kinships, and parting of ways.
New flickers, new flashes, unavoidable crashes,
While shepherding children as they come of age.

For the next three fleeting trips 'round the sun
An affected writer will inspire someone.
With a song, with a word, something previously unheard,
Only then can this one's work truly be done.

For when the dawn of the next day is formally crowned,
And the countless rotations have us spinning around,
We'll be joyful, we'll be thankful, strikingly grateful,
That we took time to write some of this down.