Who Knows?

Who knows what the impending season holds

Or landscapes poised to cradle the embrace

Of Time’s imbuement ere the past enfolds

The serenade of moments sealed in place

Who knows what may befall in the half-breath

Of present we inhale; history’s clasp

Exhales in laughter, tears, in life and death

Who knows what waits beyond our present-gasp?

Who sees the crypt groaning with broken dreams?

The obscure deaths within, not eulogized

Or where the private tear of sorrow gleams

Because we grieve alone the dream that died

And who can tell the measure of a man

Beneath the quiet veil of skin; God can

© Janet Martin

This morning, as I stared across the mute landscape

I caught myself wondering what would transpire before these fields are green again...