Always on the Fringe...

 Autumn grandstands wave wildly while waning hillside Hurrahs

Already winds of change are draining its gaudy applause

From Anne of Ingleside

The aptitude and fortitude and solitude of Past

Is like a landscape after summer’s blooming cape is cast

Aside; the tide of tick and tock, with unrelenting force

Dominates earth and all therein subject to its discourse

…and nothing can evade the Thing that seasons Seasons, oh,

The Past is like an echo-land brindled with letting go

Where we are ever on the fringe of it but never There

Though always moments in our grip slip to its thoroughfare

…while we grapple to learn to love what Present deems our lot

Then twilight takes and tenders to the trove of Afterthought

And we, betrothed it seems, to Becoming, cannot afford

To stand too long and gaze at vistas that once we adored

…or else we miss The Very Thing that waits to splash its ilk

In gray and gold upon the ether Hold of molded silk

Where aptitude and fortitude and solitude of Yore

Is always on the fringe of what we touch and where we are

© Janet Martin

 Here are the thoughts leading up to Anne's summation...