Scar-dust...

I’m so glad I am still at a stage where I can say this is Matt’s room or Victoria’s room…etc.
This is where we do… not ‘used to’!

I watched a movie recently where a woman was showing a visitor through her house,
her voice braving through wistful ‘breaking’ as she said.
'This used to be such and such’s room’ or ‘here we used to…etc'
.

Yet, for all the ‘used to’ of Time’s expended favors 

Daily it offers new ‘to do’ full of un-experienced flavors!

the sixteen-beat line is more awkward to read 
but its the way a few have fallen recently.

If its too long break it into four-beat rhythms to read:) 

Hope you enjoy...

Yes, soon the cracking of a vault that spills life’s little now and here

Will seal its reel of somersaults, cartwheels, scar-dust-star-burst veneer

Inhale, exhale, Future to Past is cast in most subtle demise

Of what slips through us far too fast in common day-to-day disguise

Hello, darling Today, flaunting a tray of treats not tasted yet

You brim with breath-stealing array of moments primed for retrospect

Of truffle-and-kerfuffle, of entrées, some ‘yech’, some ‘seconds, please’

Where we are all like growing children with appetites to appease

Happiness is not something reserved for a rare and select few

It waits to be discovered in a plethora of present hue

So, take a closer look at colors soon snuffed by pink dusk-to-dusk

And taste the fruit in season before all that remains is its husk

Let’s be indulgent; let’s forgive and forget failure and faux pas

We’re all in this together; born to weather Time’s unflinching law

I’d hate to think while we were nursing narcissistic, petty peeves

Too late we look for blooms forsook, lost in the snow and fallen leaves

Sometimes, so foolishly we think that Time is like a patient pal

Ah, it is neither Friend nor Foe; it composes a madrigal

Of hold-let-go and oh its cadence ebbs and flows, bittersweet knell

Where metronome of noon-noon-noon soon swoons in echoes of farewell

The measure of time’s treasure doled in tender toll of tick and tock

No one can hoard; its keepsakes framed in galleries of quiet thought

Don’t cry my dear, the now and Here replenishes font from a fount

That overflows each day with blessing much too manifold to count  

© Janet Martin