Monday, September 5, 2016

Whispers of Time




 Summer's gaudiest plumes fall prey to September's russet highlights.


Futile to fret, my love,
Futile to cry
My, how time’s measure of
More kens the sigh

Turmoil and tempest-tune
Tugs at the heart
Murmurs of summer-noon
Slipping apart

Hold me, my darling,
The nearness of loss
Keens the awareness of
Love’s albatross

Time runs its bow across
Earth’s violin
Darling, we feel its touch
Undo our skin

Futile to fret, my love
Futile to cry
We are all whispers of
Time passing by
 

© Janet Martin

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