Wednesday, November 5, 2014

The Flower-hours





Today I pulled out the marigolds. The snow last week-end finally got the best of them...I collected lots of seeds and am already anticipating next year's flower-hours!

The flower hours flutter by
Like summer’s pretty butterfly
Where pinnacle of every belle
Is but a prelude to farewell

The rose bestows its out-poured bud
To boulevards of garden mud
Time frames a doorway, year on year
Through which all children disappear

Where mothers tending task to task
Befriending moments dare not ask
From God above for more or less
Than this wee cup of happiness

Again, again it overflows
From bashful bud to fallen rose
The flower-hours flutter by
‘neath wide-fling shutters of the sky

Where come-to-pass is grasped in awe
For we are subject to a law
Where the acme of every belle
Is but a prelude to farewell

© Janet Martin

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