Thursday, June 28, 2012

What Could it Be?




It spills across the darkness from restored horizon lines
It fills the morning and the noon and night
It teases from the humble bud the bloom, the autumn wine
It weaves its apprehension and delight
Across its span of gathered hours, it wanders; leaps and flies
It strips the garden path of flowers and taunts our hungry eyes

It tugs a breath, an hour, a day into its firm embrace
It tugs the precious baby from our arms
It ravishes with smiles and tears love’s ever-changing face
And stuns us with its sweet and simple charms
And for a while it may deceive us into thinking it will last
Before we turn to see the long blue shadow it has cast

What is this wrenching overture that pleads and bleeds and weeps?
What tunes our passions like the days of grass?
Where are its hidden pulses throbbing from galactic deeps?
To wink at seasons in its hour-glass
What is this tender melody of bitter-sweetest rhyme?
Why it is simply this; the subtle brevity of time

© Janet Martin



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