The Way of Days and Other Such Things

Like honey-suckle of summer

Soon this little day will lie

Beneath the shrouds of winter

And December’s lullaby

Like snow upon the fallow

Melting in the high-noon sun

This day slips to the hollow

Where all life’s moments run

We rise, but to surrender

No one can flee or steal

Time’s portent from the fingers

Of the Potter at the wheel

The orbit of each season

Like all things living must

Relinquish transient reason

Returning dust to dust

Like the wick of a candle

Illuminated by a spark

Before the puff of winter

Snuffs its light and it is dark

© Janet Martin