Another Day at Hand

 Finally in the up-right position after a hum-dinger of a flu or something!

I tried to 'feel better' this morning, attempting a slow-bustle for 2 hours from 6:00 'til 8:00;
 seeing everyone out the door with their 'travel-bags' for the day or week depending on the person:)

...then I thought maybe if I write my body will forget its sick, so I did (a little) until it was time to pick up my daughter after her exam at 10:00.
Came home to crash on the couch sleeping off and on for the better part of the day!

I am not a patient patient...so happy to be feeling like I might be on the upswing!

The Weaver of Time’s lariat flings gold lakes across the land

His whisper weaves the chariot of another day at hand

As Mercy metes the Stead whereby we traverse morn-to-night

Partakers of The Grace that rattles faith’s cages with sight

Life’s journeyed miles, hinged to a fringe of fathoms mystical  

Repeats its clock-style circuit, with ne’er two identical

And like wild horses set to race across earth's waking strand

Dawn draws ajar the flood-gates of another day at hand

Its gifted breath before the death of all we touch and taste

Drives us forward; futile to stare at former fancies chased

But on this grin-and-bear-it-win-lose-share-it stricken sand

The rider and the chariot greet another day at hand

Each hour, like a lariat soft-lobbed toward its quest

Cannot lasso the chariot that wheels from east to west

It riles Time’s child a little then discharges its demand

Until it is refurbished with another day at hand

© Janet Martin

Below is version #1 written before the 'tweak'...
sometimes after the tweak I'm no longer sure which version is worse better.

The Weaver of Time’s throughway flings gold quilts across the land

His whisper wakes the wonder of another day at hand

As Mercy metes the means whereby we traverse morn-noon-night

And partake of the grace that rattles faith’s cages with sight

Life’s journeyed miles hinged to a fringe of fathoms mystical 

Repeats its clock-style circuit, with ne’er two identical

Of ‘now we lay us down to sleep’ and now we ‘rise and shine’

To join the jostling on a street of ‘how are you’, ‘I’m fine’

This gifted breath before the death of all we touch and taste

Drives us forward; futile to stare at former fancies chased

But in this grin-and-bear-it-win-lose-share-it, still at hand

The Weaver of its throughway flings gold streets across the land

Each hour, like a lariat soft-lobbed toward its quest

Cannot lasso the chariot that wheels from east to west

It riles Time’s child a little then discharges its demand

‘Til Whispers wake the wonder of another day at hand

© Janet Martin