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, 
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)



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