Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Naught, but the Hours That Haste

I dream of apple trees
Heady with pink froth of spring
And beneath, on its petal-blanket
We arrest moment-offerings
Before the hour devours
Its fragrance from our lips
And bends the apple orchard
With fruit that autumn strips

I dream of a cup spilling over
With fragments of faded years
Time masquerades as a lover
While a lifetime disappears
Yet eagerly he insists on bringing
New flavors I must taste
While heedless, I am clinging
To naught but the hours that haste

© Janet Martin

1 comment:

  1. `a cup spilling over with fragments of faded years' - I love that image!


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