Against the backdrop of deep-autumn gray
The night meanders in across the sea
Swindling moments from December’s day
Obliterating it to history
And all that we have done is sealed therein
We cannot rearrange one half-wink jot
Gone is the cup of sun-spun hours wherein
We spill the aftermath of our thought
The wee allotment of coveted time
Is smaller in December’s out-stretched hand
For soon the sun has metered its swift climb
From east to west as twilight drapes the land
While shadows stretch in stark blue honesty
Across the stricken landscapes to the sea
The patient shoulder of sweet mother earth
Responds in still submission to night’s quest
She bears each season’s misery and mirth
Within her bosom rescued dreamers rest
She is the canvas of our toil and spoil
Across her brow the moody moments sweep
But never one its exploit can recoil
Or be unspent as to her claim they seep
And we, unwary follow in their tread
Leaving nothing but memory in their wake
For when at last the climax of their lead
Is in the grave, there’s nothing we can take
Naked into her lap we briefly came
Our one lone echoed offering is our name
Intangible; the veil of middle night
Conceals life’s staid familiarities
I hold you now, so far beyond my sight
And yet curved to me in familiar ease
The distance of too many hours flaunts
We should be beggars of time’s hurried glance
Its proof in life’s mirrored reflection taunts
An equalizing grip; this forward dance
We are not too old yet; we dream once more
Without the reckless candor of our youth
But, ever mindful of the fading shore
Our dreams are wiser now, sculpted by truth
Against the back-drop of deep-autumn’s crown
The laughter of the stars comes spilling down
© Janet Martin
(no laughter of the stars here tonight, only the music of the mist)
