Of Rocking Chairs and Roving Years

Fleet through our grasp, blithe bleeds this gasp of air

Far-gone, those fair, forever days of youth

Where dreamers undeterred by seasoned truth

Smiled past those wizened words from rocking chairs

And hands work-worn; for all the world was theirs

…where castles in the clouds sparkle and gleam

Bright eyes fixed on a prize unmarred by scars

Moments spill steppingstones out to the stars

And they, the dancers on time’s merry stream

Transfixed upon its readjusted dream

Those dusty, lusty days dissolve somehow

The rocking-chair seems programmed to repeat

Old wisdom where new sages fill its seat

Their tongues still burning with the afterglow

Of all they thought they knew but didn’t know

How, when all is done are dreams defined?

After time’s trip-and-falling growing pains  

As we grasp at the gasp of what remains

 The rocking-chair echoes as years unwind

'All we can give is what we leave behind'

© Janet Martin