Of Back-drops and December

Against the backdrop of deep-autumn gray

The night meanders in across the sea

Swindling moments from December’s day

Obliterating it to history

And all that we have done is sealed therein

We cannot rearrange one half-wink jot

Gone is the cup of sun-spun hours wherein

We spill the aftermath of our thought

The wee allotment of coveted time

Is smaller in December’s out-stretched hand

For soon the sun has metered its swift climb

From east to west as twilight drapes the land

While shadows stretch in stark blue honesty

Across the stricken landscapes to the sea

The patient shoulder of sweet mother earth

Responds in still submission to night’s quest

She bears each season’s misery and mirth

Within her bosom rescued dreamers rest

She is the canvas of our toil and spoil

Across her brow the moody moments sweep

But never one its exploit can recoil

Or be unspent as to her claim they seep

And we, unwary follow in their tread

Leaving nothing but memory in their wake

For when at last the climax of their lead

Is in the grave, there’s nothing we can take

Naked into her lap we briefly came

Our one lone echoed offering is our name

Intangible; the veil of middle night

Conceals life’s staid familiarities

I hold you now, so far beyond my sight

And yet curved to me in familiar ease

The distance of too many hours flaunts

We should be beggars of time’s hurried glance

Its proof in life’s mirrored reflection taunts

An equalizing grip; this forward dance

We are not too old yet; we dream once more

Without the reckless candor of our youth

But, ever mindful of the fading shore

Our dreams are wiser now, sculpted by truth

Against the back-drop of deep-autumn’s crown

The laughter of the stars comes spilling down

© Janet Martin

(no laughter of the stars here tonight, only the music of the mist)