Recently each day flaunts a new robe of gray; we try not to groan as we whisper, 'Thy will be done'.
We cannot force the mute discourse of moments as they flow
Green, gray and gold of May unfolds its bud of want and woe
The stricken slope of barren hope before the sheaf of leaf
Must wait the touch of Time and such to temper our belief
The emptiness of sweet success stuns vain ability
How soon its cup must be filled up with what is yet to be
Yet, twixt bud closed and fallen Rose a glorious interlude
Of have and hold sustains where cold and bolder banes exude
The living room of bud and bloom and faded aftermath
Of what has been and what will be embraces our path
As tick-tock flight of wrong and right, of yearning,
learning leap
Soon gathers in joy and chagrin to Time’s eternal sleep
The opulence of new-born chance drenches dawn’s gifted grace
Where pantomime of summer-time, autumn-winter-spring trace
A scarlet thread of hope and dread within live-laugh-love’s
claim
For soon the swoon of bud and bloom returns from whence it
came
© Janet Martin
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