They’ve started over so often

their hands know the feel of dawn—

coffee cooling on the railing,

heart set to carry on.


They don’t talk much of wisdom,

they just mend what’s torn and lean—

their knowing lives in doing,

their faith in what’s unseen.


They plant the same small garden,

though frost may have its say;

they trust the sun to find them

in its roundabout way.


They sing when skies are heavy,

laugh when the work is long;

their prayers are more like breathing,

their lessons more like song.


They’ve failed enough to be gentle,

lost enough to be kind,

and found that every ending

is just another time to find.


So here’s to the ones still starting,

though tired, they begin again—

seasoned by all their breaking,

beginners until the end.