Of Bloom-buttoned Grass

Nothing stays

The clocks betrays

Our silly ways

Of holding on

It strips with ease

The clapping trees

Hiding in seas

Of dusk and dawn

Nothing remains

Though thought unchains

Fragmented strains

Of season-art

Bloom-buttoned grass

Alas, alas,

Beguiles the lass

To trust her heart

Nothing will last

Future and past

Embrace the gasp

Of all we hold

Then, love today

For who can say

Which ‘come-what-may’

Waits to unfold

© Janet Martin