Ways of Dust

We have no choice; we must adjust

To season-summoned ways of dust

Futile to lie prostrate and weep

For crumpled leaves we cannot keep

To say’ I told you so’ is vain

…base boasts upon fellow-mates pain

We have no choice; all must accept

The voice of clocks, stoic, adept

My, how thought splays a shadow-show

Of tender holding-letting-go

Yet we return, for who can fight

The tide that turns morning to night?

We have no choice; we all must bear

Time’s bold ambassador of air

Its naked whisper teases youth

Before that first taste-test of truth

…when, startled by its austere voice

They realize they have no choice

But must endure like all men must

Time’s season-summoned ways of dust

© Janet Martin