When this day is naught but an echo
Tuning its wisp of a sigh
Crooning ‘cross mesmerized meadow
Where sweet tender memories lie...
When this day is merely a murmur
Deep in the archives of thought
Like timorous strains of a swan-song
Keening love’s double-edge jot...
When this day is nothing but moments
Gathered back into the air
Where only our memories touch them
Meeting their infinite stare...
...When this day sweeps into the sunset
Riding on time’s winsome wing
And all we can see is its memory
Will it be beautiful thing?
© Janet Martin
I heard the echoes today while skiing the trail we walk in the other three seasons.