Days...

They slip above, beneath and through each barb or fence and wall

No barrier can force or inhibit their rise and fall

Darling, the way of days in all their glory-riddled dust

Is more than pen can splay in phrase or poet’s wanderlust

The fortune of time’s free-fall is not something we can hold

Or hoard in holes and pockets like a heap of miser’s gold

But oft it stirs in whispers, in the twinkle of a grin

Or spills like shadows sprawled on hills of harvest gathered in

The aftermath of hazy days and daisy haze is sweet

Rewarding thought with pictures that grow dearer in defeat

For Time is always Victor in the race from here to there

Days slip above, beneath and through the blue of season-fare   

Because we are unable to impose upon its ways

We ought to travel kindly on Time’s avenue of Days

For who can tell how near or far before the curtain falls

And we hear the Director says, ‘I’m sorry, folks, that’s all’

© Janet Martin

The dad I babysit for lost his Dad today. He was 65.

In his last days (years?) he suffered from Alzheimer’s and ALS.

Always, death makes us re-evaluate how we are spending our Days…

…and where we will be after they are spent.

But, beloved, be not ignorant of this one thing, that one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.

The Lord is not slack concerning his promise, as some men count slackness; but is longsuffering to us-ward, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.  2 Pet.3:8-9