Your Time to Season

Your time to season has had its season,

your useful bits have now long gone;

you struggle to rhyme without your reason,

the line in the sand has been overdrawn.

But in your structure, I see a spark

of a cunning, active, tactile mind;

your sunset days will leave their mark,

in beauty you’ll rest, when life’s resigned.

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These chives have lost their primary purpose – and yet, in their decline, they are still beautiful. ┬áDon’t you agree?

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Time Will Tell

Time will tell –

tally of suns and moons

draws age spots on cheeks,

fades spring blush,

traces wrinkles in the parchment;

and yet,

in your death throes,

you carpet the earth

in sunshine.

Time has told tales –

days and nights of wonder,

tear-stains over grass-stains

in endless cycles of wash and wear madness;

secrets,

loves gained and lost,

progeny wiped and polished and applauded,

aches echoing pains in a comedy of errors.

What your final glory will be,

only

Time will tell.

Glory

The years have robbed them –

of youth, strength, seedlings, soil.

Yet still they stand,

tottering together,

hand in hand,

heart in heart,

staring down the approaching winter

with eyes bleary but wise.

Theirs has been

a journey,

a defiance,

a rising above,

a conquering of Kingdoms.

And on the brink of leaving this for the next,

they raise shaking heads

to be crowned at last

with glory.