Like Cello-music 'neath Our Feet

 Close your eyes. Doesn't this feel like time rushing beneath our feet?

Time pours from far-flung doors like cello anthems ‘neath our feet

It tumbles where our fingers fumble with its music-sheet

The bower where its flower once excited our glance

Is hushed; a barren ballroom after summer’s last slow-dance

Dawn’s sunbeams nudge new shadow-bars like waltz-notes to the grass

A baton out among the stars strikes chords of come-to-pass

And certain choir members gaze in hope to see, perchance

Someone will plead an encore for summer’s long, last slow-dance

Somewhere The Maestro tunes time’s strings, for He is Choir-chief

A subtle key-change trembles where the air is charged with leaf

‘To everything there is a season’; hope is more than hapless chance

It scans time’s tablature in search of summer’s last, slow-dance

© Janet Martin