Of Stumps, Seasons and Souls

Time’s seasoned heart its rampant art extends

A canvas over grave and cradle-blends

Earth takes on form of hill and dale and bow’r

As morn, from bud-like dorm breaks into flow’r

And frees from terminals beyond our sight

Fresh entity of first and final flight

Night fades into new day, then day dissolves

And so the flow of age to age evolves

Ah, see the stump, the lowly stump bereft

Of barefoot boy and warbler’s wordless clef

The wind that wandered through its leafy loft

Finds haunts not yet by moment-meter doffed

Gravestone to nature’s noble balladeer

Its epitaph declares, ‘a tree stood here’

Ere it fell prey to Day’s dominant barge

That strips morn’s maiden voyage of her charge

The rich man’s roulette wheel distracts from death

The beggar begs for life with every breath

New motherhood in wonder of first child

Drinks joy as pure as in Yore, long exiled

The laborer and lover‘s kindred goal

Of home-sweet-home is nectar to the soul

The morning, like a war-cry from the east

Bids some to sharpen tools and some to feast

Tell me, my friend; this common end we brave

…are any here too mighty for its grave?

Have any birthed a master-plan to trick

Five-season’s worth from earth’s four-season wick

Or in the mid of summer’s swelt’ring pall

Can any will the cooling rain to fall?

Or haste the day where we lay boast and trust

To settle on a tray of dust to dust

Awake, awake, dawn’s clarion-call rings clear

To meet nearby Unknown with faith or fear

How slick the quick that pours from morning’s jar

We blink; dusk’s pink sky pinned with Evening Star

Where we are oft surprised by olden wont

And taken quite aback by ancient font

As day fades into night and night to day

While footfalls to Forever wend their way

© Janet Martin