Monday, December 29, 2014


How still the aftermath of fall
How mute its brimming madrigal
Scarlet-gold girth and red-lipped mirth
Return where earth reclaims it all

How deep the aftermath of days
A glance where Before bared its face
Then laid its head where eons spread
And none can reach to change its ways

How long the aftermath of years
A flicker, then it disappears
From here to there, a bit of air
Engraved upon Past’s phantom spheres

How brief the twinkle in time’s eye
Of joy or grief, hello, good-bye
We dare not waste but fully taste
God’s gracious gift to you and I

How sure the aftermath of Now
Where do you go, old year, and how?
By tick and tock, a click, a lock
I kiss fair youth from ev’ry brow

How stoic yesterday seals its clutch
Where love wove memories and such
How rare the strand within the hand
That weaves the aftermath of touch

© Janet Martin

Well, now I’m off to weave the strands in my hands…h-m-m, I think they look like dirty dishes and laundry…
And who knows what else?

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