Who knows what the impending season holds
Or landscapes poised to cradle the embrace
Of Time’s imbuement ere the past enfolds
The serenade of moments sealed in place
Who knows what may befall in the half-breath
Of present we inhale; history’s clasp
Exhales in laughter, tears, in life and death
Who knows what waits beyond our present-gasp?
Who sees the crypt groaning with broken dreams?
The obscure deaths within, not eulogized
Or where the private tear of sorrow gleams
Because we grieve alone the dream that died
And who can tell the measure of a man
Beneath the quiet veil of skin; God can
© Janet Martin
This morning, as I stared across the mute landscape
I caught myself wondering what would transpire before these fields are green again...