From Whence It Came...

Recently each day flaunts a new robe of gray; we try not to groan as we whisper, 'Thy will be done'.

We cannot force the mute discourse of moments as they flow

Green, gray and gold of May unfolds its bud of want and woe

The stricken slope of barren hope before the sheaf of leaf

Must wait the touch of Time and such to temper our belief

The emptiness of sweet success stuns vain ability

How soon its cup must be filled up with what is yet to be

Yet, twixt bud closed and fallen Rose a glorious interlude

Of have and hold sustains where cold and bolder banes exude

The living room of bud and bloom and faded aftermath

Of what has been and what will be embraces our path

As tick-tock flight of wrong and right, of yearning, learning leap

Soon gathers in joy and chagrin to Time’s eternal sleep

The opulence of new-born chance drenches dawn’s gifted grace

Where pantomime of summer-time, autumn-winter-spring trace

A scarlet thread of hope and dread within live-laugh-love’s claim

For soon the swoon of bud and bloom returns from whence it came

© Janet Martin