What is this span of seasons strewn
On sweep of sand or through rock hewn?
Of lily-laughter lacing dust
Or shadow tracing wander-lust
Daybreak climbs to high noon, then soon
Dusk pins the dark with crescent moon
What spins this sacred swoon of air
Where we press on…to what? To where?
Is this day-night-to-day a hoax
Of hours strung on sun-rise spokes
Before the west burns quietly
With one more page of history?
…and is the awe of nature’s best
Mere wonder-frames of moment-jest
or Miracles without a God?
Is Time but silliness of sod,
And all its battles that we brave
But for the glory of the grave?
Ah, what is this which rends the flesh
And mends the heart with loneliness?
If we are beasts without a soul
Then what is joy or living’s goal?
And is our guerdon Death, cold-grinned
As ashes drift upon the wind
…and then, is Calvary a tale
Of nothing but fireside regale?
And would Perfection die for naught?
Ah, what is life? Skin, blood and thought?
No, no! Touch earnestly Time’s sod
Life is the road that leads to God
© Janet Martin