Where The Bough Surrenders

It is universal; Grief

Where the bough that braves The Leaf

Succumbs to a Dauntless Chief

Suave, its laws of sorrow

Ah, the will and want of us

Cannot usurp It because

IS, is always hinged to was

…today to tomorrow

Panhandlers of tick and tock

We are beggars of a clock

Doling bowls of sky and rock

Bloom-strewn walks and stubble

Triumph is a short-lived fete

This world has no easy-street

Profit wars with loss, defeat,

Fortune wars with trouble

Man is of few days and born

To the ways that laugh then mourn

That which offers no return

For swift season-splendors

Farewell finds new footholds, oh,

Holding turns to letting go

Leaves fall like gold-russet snow

Where the bough surrenders

© Janet Martin