Ever-present Offering

Oh mournful morn, how dull the corn

Shivers on field and stricken hill

The hour that plucks high-noon then dusk

Has folded back to earth its thrill

The chill wind sobs from morn to night

While we absorb a season’s flight

The weathered trail of wood and dale

Flaunts autumn’s russet pirouette

Feet dash and race or slowly trace

The aftermath of summer-set

And all beneath the lowered sky

The muffled robes of autumn lie

We do not mourn, though Time has torn

Another chapter from its ream

A strange relief, half hope, half grief

Stirs wildly in our untried dream

For Time is not a garnered thing

But ever-present offering

© Janet Martin