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