Time’s seasoned heart its rampant art extends
A canvas over grave and cradle-blends
Earth takes on form of hill and dale and bow’r
As morn, from bud-like dorm breaks into flow’r
And frees from terminals beyond our sight
Fresh entity of first and final flight
Night fades into new day, then day dissolves
And so the flow of age to age evolves
Ah, see the stump, the lowly stump bereft
Of barefoot boy and warbler’s wordless clef
The wind that wandered through its leafy loft
Finds haunts not yet by moment-meter doffed
Gravestone to nature’s noble balladeer
Its epitaph declares, ‘a
tree stood here’
Ere it fell prey to Day’s dominant barge
That strips morn’s maiden voyage of her charge
The rich man’s roulette wheel distracts from death
The beggar begs for life with every breath
New motherhood in wonder of first child
Drinks joy as pure as in Yore, long exiled
The laborer and lover‘s kindred goal
Of home-sweet-home is nectar to the soul
The morning, like a war-cry from the east
Bids some to sharpen tools and some to feast
Tell me, my friend; this common end we brave
…are any here too mighty for its grave?
Have any birthed a master-plan to trick
Five-season’s worth from earth’s four-season wick
Or in the mid of summer’s swelt’ring pall
Can any will the cooling rain to fall?
Or haste the day where we lay boast and trust
To settle on a tray of dust to dust
Awake, awake, dawn’s clarion-call rings clear
To meet nearby Unknown with faith or fear
How slick the quick that pours from morning’s jar
We blink; dusk’s pink sky pinned with Evening Star
Where we are oft surprised by olden wont
And taken quite aback by ancient font
As day fades into night and night to day
While footfalls to Forever wend their way
© Janet Martin
