|
| seasons | ||
| after a while | ||
| there is silence: | ||
| tides curl the shore, | ||
| time calls, the father of seasons, | ||
| they leave, summoned | ||
| while here and there | ||
| someone watches the sun set, | ||
| remembering | ||
| mornings past, mornings coming - | ||
| thoughts sometimes held | ||
| in the wishing hands | ||
| of memories, hopes, maybe prayers. | ||
| evening comes | ||
| easy in winter, | ||
| we pretend the world's weary | ||
| and feels our familiar pain -- | ||
| the cold bare wind - we, its chimes | ||
| as we cling to warmth held inside us, | ||
| inside homes we build loving, | ||
| leave cold sometimes, | ||
| in memories that fade, | ||
| though we color them diligently - | ||
| a child's loving dream | ||
| in warm hues of daybreaks and sunsets, | ||
| in spring not-yet summer, | ||
| our books half-unread then -- | ||
| time calls, we leave now | ||
| to cherish the pages remaining. | ||
| © Jon Bohrn (1999) | ||
