Dawn’s distant hills of soft-brushed blue
Its common thrills of chores to do
As mercy spills from you-know-Who
Is no trite enterprise
For in the wake and sleep of it
The Nothing we can keep of it
Is everything we reap of it
Where seed’s fruit never lies
Life’s love and laughter prize we crave
It sighs and cries and whys we brave
Are ties that bind all to the grave
Save the undying soul
Our present give and take of it
Is mostly what we make of it
The ecstasy and ache of it
The husk that cups The Goal
The can't and can and plant and plan
The moment-measure of a man
The days and weeks and years that span
Twixt beginning and end
Is a four-season thoroughfare
Of bud-to-bloom-to-stem-stripped-bare
A dust-and-trust trekked praise-and-prayer
With which we must contend
Where want and woe and pomp and show
Goodbye-hello and hold-let-go
I-love-you-so and yes and no
Tamps, tromps time’s frail facade
As everyone who travels it
Soft-subtly unravels it
Until all that is left of it
Is handed back to God
© Janet Martin
