But the prophecies, they will cease,

The tongues, they will fall silent,

The knowledge, it will pass away,

But these three will remain:

The quiet delight of a long weekend of doing nothing

in the space between the end of Spring and the beginning of Summer,

The wonder of blowing on the white feathery head of a ripe dandelion

and watching its parachutes float and hover in the space between grass and sky,

And the long golden rays of the sun,

setting down somewhere behind the rooftops of the low-rises on Clairevue Boulevard

in the space between day and evening.

But the greatest of these is love.