It's Time

Like the evening summer sun,
my bronzed hands and forearms
gently fade and pale.
We both sense it, the sun and I.
It’s fine. It’s time.
We could rage against the dying,
as some are prone to do,
but why?

Old John Donne believed it’s always autumn in heaven,
no buds or flowers, only fruit fully ripe.
I believe that’s crazy.
A seasoned Elysium holds my hope,
not some never ending summer.

The Good Book speaks of all things new,
not all new things.
Donne’s mercy-filled Fall will be covered
by Winters whiter than snow.
Then Spring will thrust up blackred roses
e.e. cumming’s mother couldn’t dream of.
As for Summer, we’ll saunter along
streets of gold with bronzed hands and forearms
until we sense it’s time.
Then we’ll roll down our sleeves once more
to harvest the mercies of God.


6 comments:

  1. From a person who doesn't like to be pinned down on a favorite anything because I like them all the best, a hearty amen.

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  2. this makes me want to cry. oh my goodness.

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  3. i have been wearing clothes in layers
    these days. seems we've been going
    through two or three seasons a day.

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  4. Thank you for this. My heart needs to celebrate this change in season.

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  5. That's good John.

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