Poetry

A Walk With Time

 

Laughter.
Galloping between warming rays
it echoes through the still
of a quiet afternoon.
Child unburdened, mind untamed,
curiosity insatiable that feeds
her wandering thoughts.

Spring arrives,
ripened with verdant green,

like blossoms unfurling with the breeze
she spreads her timid wings.
Each hour reveals, each day a new age,
boundless fields before her,
pirouettes on a promised stage.

Then you hasten,
remain ahead of her strides.

She pleas for you to turn for her
as she chases each moment elusive.
Years rush like seconds,
seasons shrink to days,

what once sprightly pranced upon tender leaves
now slow to a staggering gait.

Standing alone under winter sun
where golden days fade to rust,
she reminisces of ages past
and of lives come and gone.
Through aches of tears nostalgic
she sees you turn for her.
You take her hand, “It’s alright” you say,
“for a new season now has come.”

Then you guide her tenderly
one final time down the road.
Out of the frost, away from the cold,
and into the mists
of tomorrow.

Lines penned two decades ago never felt more true.
May we treasure every day.

 

38 replies »

  1. Reblogged this on richwrapper and commented:
    Phoebe: this love story with life has so many implications and limitless possibilities emanating and its connection to Anne Frank’s two-line dissertation on your site keeps reverberating. Without reference to sequence, one or both seem to underscore passion for people, health, happiness and a place where those may be found – in the practice of the science and art of medicine. Said by you so much more beautifully than my usual self-effacing gab of “my mortician has yet to call for an appointment…but I backstopped that by giving him my little brother’s phone number. I continue to be well-er than I desrve and thank The Lord each day I so am able such to say. Thanks, again, Doc, this goes to my blog “Commentar…” et al.

    Like

    • Ooops…meant to reblog on a secondary “Commentary…” to my richwrapper blog, but on reflection, even though such site is labelled for haiku your work deserves as much “play” as possible, so, once again, I lift up my little finger and say “thank you” for ignoring my neural commands yet again.

      Like

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