Tuesday, December 27, 2016

To Time's Touch

In August you lie on my skin, sun-warm and flower-kind
In December you vex my grin with summers left behind

Still, ice-kisses pressed on my cheek remind me not to weep
But fumble with what dusk dismisses to past’s darksome deep

...because what was cannot return; and what waits, who can say?
Futile to ransack today's urn in search of yesterday

Thus, though we pine for zephyrs strumming vine laden with leaf
We drink the pink of snow-sunrises veiling slumb’ring sheaf

The hour, like a flower, unfolds, blooms, its shadow dims
And fades to nothing but the tune in bygone's hallowed hymns

Time's moment-gold we hold soon drifts in ashes cold and gray
December's embers snuffed like stars at dawn or summer's day

© Janet Martin

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