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) (lately, the silence)


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