Eventually it slips away
Like it never existed
Splash ‘o gold or bit ‘o gray
the bitty road that twisted
Through miles we’d ‘druther not’ but must
All are simply dust to dust
Transient, like a bitty bud
That breaks through bark to flourish
Before it tumbles to earth’s mud
Some other dream to nourish
For nothing is a single thing
But links upon an ether string
Touch to touch, life’s moments flow
A swift four-season river
What to what? We cannot know
But trust time’s tender Giver
As we press toward a Goal
Not of flesh but of the soul
© Janet Martin
Snow, blowing snow…that’s the forecast and I think we are
all wearying of it. Victoria
just told me she thinks we’ll never see the grass again; we will because we
know ‘as long as the earth remains…’
