Life is a frost-kissed autumn mist that drapes dawn’s countryside
Where even the most common frond, yielded to seasoned lease
Beneath the brush of Mercy’s bond, becomes a masterpiece
Sometimes I think I feel the chill of winter closing in
I sense its restless presence pressing underneath my skin
And in my bones its somber tones with aches and pains confirms
Though we may balk no one can sweettalk time out of its terms
The composition of a year gathers up days to weeks
Where moment-storms appear then melt like snowflakes on our cheeks
Thus, soon four season’s worth of mirth-and-misery-veneer
Rush through our reach like waves that wash the beach and disappear
Sometimes the mind can run wild with what-ifs army of fear
But just as it has always been, worry wastes now and here
Better to trust the Hand that grants Today’s clock-salary
Rather than borrow from a morrow that may never be
Sometimes I sense an intense, soundless changing of the guard
Youth’s castle of dreams seems like a picture on a postcard
Where time, with no regard for hearts and swinging season-doors
Draws springtime’s blushing dancers across star-glossed ballroom floors
Somehow autumn swept in while I was lost in summer’s charm
A cooler Casanova gripped my half-reluctant arm
And drew me into rhythms of a stunning serenade
That I could not envision while more rousing numbers played
Ah, I cannot afford to dread, ahead of time, The Thing
That sometimes looms like winter in my envelope of skin
Where three-score years and ten (or four) are not a guarantee
And all I know for sure is Time’s Giver is trustworthy
Then this assurance is enough to weather and endure
Whatever love may ask of us, He holds our molds secure
As numbered days are lent and spent and season-tides cajole
And dash form’s filament till all is winnowed but the soul
So then, if I am wise, I fix my eyes past what I see
The body is a carriage bearing immortality
And though, sometimes I dread the chill of winter’s willingness
Tis but the prelude to fulfillment of hope’s happiness
How dismal to be tangled in a web of fickle pride
Life is a frost-kissed autumn mist that drapes dawn’s countryside
Where even the most common frond, yielded to seasoned lease
Beneath the brush of Mercy’s bond, becomes a masterpiece
© Janet Martin
Psalm 90:10
Our days may come to seventy years, or eighty, if our strength endures;
yet the best of them are but trouble and sorrow,
for they quickly pass, and we fly away.
And if by reason of strength they are eighty years,
Yet their boast is only labor and sorrow;
For it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years,
yet is their strength labour and sorrow;
for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
(to think I used to think being a grandma must be a depressing age😍)
Autumn is beautiful!
Whatever the blessings that compose its beauty, thank-you God!
(I wanted to hold grand-daughter's hand too but there was too much to explore to stand still!)
Somehow autumn swept in while I was lost in summer’s charm
A cooler Casanova gripped my half-reluctant arm
And drew me into rhythms of a stunning serenade
That I could not envision while more rousing numbers played
