Of All Our Other Days...

…and all our other days

Have slipped into the trance

Of bygone; still, the ways

Of time dare us to dance

This is our mortal must

Not merely to exist

But to wring from Time’s dust

The uttermost of it

For soon this bitty bloom

Will falter ‘neath our gaze

And slip into That Room

Of all our other days

That Room, for all its boast

Of highs and lows and such

Claims every uttermost

And seals it from our touch

 We embark once again

Upon dawn’s newborn ways

To face what yet remains

Of all our other days

© Janet Martin