Tuesday, December 27, 2016

To Time's Touch



In August you lie on my skin, sun-warm and flower-kind
In December you vex my grin with summers left behind


Still, ice-kisses pressed on my cheek remind me not to weep
But fumble with what dusk dismisses to past’s darksome deep

...because what was cannot return; and what waits, who can say?
Futile to ransack today's urn in search of yesterday


Thus, though we pine for zephyrs strumming vine laden with leaf
We drink the pink of snow-sunrises veiling slumb’ring sheaf


The hour, like a flower, unfolds, blooms, its shadow dims
And fades to nothing but the tune in bygone's hallowed hymns


Time's moment-gold we hold soon drifts in ashes cold and gray
December's embers snuffed like stars at dawn or summer's day

© Janet Martin




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