just a thought                 March 2019

Where does the seasonal symphony start?

Where is that end that begins afresh,

that once more anchoring of our fickle flesh?

Is it in summer next with its certain fullness of joy,

enveloped in glimmering, sun sapping days,

becoming the mantle of a chasing of rays?

Or does fall start this oeuvre with its copious rewards,

its plenty profuse, its harvests e'er sating,

in fullness and contentment and continued baiting?

Is winter then the etude embracing refuge and dread,

a harmony confronting our will, assessing our consent;

neither before nor after nor always present?

And yet it is spring that speaks of a promise, of a hope prepared,

with its fullness of joy and rewards perceived;

it is an agreement in of faith of things believed.

Most start their opus in winter's etude,

thru movements, thru seasons, and times of assent;

neither before nor after to discover the present.

Today is the day of salvation, if...                  just a thought