Sometimes when looking back at fond, old photographs it
seems
As if those precious days gone by are strange and distant
dreams
The sickle that fells days and weeks, with naught but
moment-spheres
Lays on the landscape of soft thought a world of yesteryears
The hunger of an hour soon devours its ado
It sweeps from deeps to heap love’s tray with gray or gold
and blue
Then, in the twinkle of an eye the smith of smiles and tears
Melds high and low of joy and woe to tender yesteryears
…and in the middle of a moment, rife with life and death
Sometimes a bittersweet torment of longing steals my breath
Youth's callow bliss of hug and kiss with turn and twist
adheres
To tug-of-heart-and-soul with boys and girls of yesteryears
Gentle, the blush of breaking day brushes the night awry
Upon the brink of new today Time meets the roving eye
To pave earth’s street of graves with heaven-gold where
Mercy cheers
And fills the cup we hold with that which succours
yesteryears
We are not here to mope and mourn, but make the most of Now
Beneath the rose and thorn of life and love we reach and bow
Where somehow none can tell us what we all must learn, my
dears
Each season is a gift that all too swift binds yesteryears
© Janet Martin