They slip above, beneath and through each barb or fence and wall
No barrier can force or inhibit their rise and fall
Darling, the way of days in all their glory-riddled dust
Is more than pen can splay in phrase or poet’s wanderlust
The fortune of time’s free-fall is not something we can hold
Or hoard in holes and pockets like a heap of miser’s gold
But oft it stirs in whispers, in the twinkle of a grin
Or spills like shadows sprawled on hills of harvest gathered in
The aftermath of hazy days and daisy haze is sweet
Rewarding thought with pictures that grow dearer in defeat
For Time is always Victor in the race from here to there
Days slip above, beneath and through the blue of season-fare
Because we are unable to impose upon its ways
We ought to travel kindly on Time’s avenue of Days
For who can tell how near or far before the curtain falls
And we hear the Director says, ‘I’m sorry, folks, that’s all’
© Janet Martin
The dad I babysit for lost his Dad today. He was 65.
In his last days (years?) he suffered from Alzheimer’s and ALS.
Always, death makes us re-evaluate how we are spending our Days…
…and where we will be after they are spent.
But, beloved, be not ignorant of this one thing, that one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.
The Lord is not slack concerning his promise, as some men count slackness; but is longsuffering to us-ward, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance. 2 Pet.3:8-9