All these mornings
Of pouring coffee
Of nose-to-the-grindstone
Adds up to years
And suddenly we are
Startled anew
At how fast
Time disappears
The hand that gathers
Morning-noon-night
And binds it
Into sheaves
Though Kindness bestows
Rose-thorn joy
Still, the heart
Gently grieves
The morning light
That precedes noon
Before night
Darkly breaks
Composes a
Dissonant tune
By what Time gives
…and takes
This what-we-have-
And-hold
Will soon fold
To Yore's far-off land
Time fills the heart
And soul with more
Than thought can
Quite command
© Janet Martin
As we age, the slipping away of time becomes so much more pronounced, and tragic in a way.
ReplyDeleteYes, for all that was and all that never can be.
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