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
