Saturday, October 11, 2014

Ways of Dust





We have no choice; we must adjust
To season-summoned ways of dust
Futile to lie prostrate and weep
For crumpled leaves we cannot keep

To say’ I told you so’ is vain
…base boasts upon fellow-mates pain
We have no choice; all must accept
The voice of clocks, stoic, adept

My, how thought splays a shadow-show
Of tender holding-letting-go
Yet we return, for who can fight
The tide that turns morning to night?

We have no choice; we all must bear
Time’s bold ambassador of air
Its naked whisper teases youth
Before that first taste-test of truth

…when, startled by its austere voice
They realize they have no choice
But must endure like all men must
Time’s season-summoned ways of dust

© Janet Martin

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