sorrow in the ripened vine
wherein a moment’s mystery’s kept,
at peak of summer’s sweetest rain,
as clouds of tear drops wept.
Tears, that is, for summer’s wane
and musk of fall’s encroaching.
Wherein our energy’s spent in holding
every moment’s fateful poaching
of the lazy days, where waking thoughts
bring autumn breeze, to stir
in conscious summer’s hold
on this green moment’s sunlit allure.
Yet there’s sorrow in the ripened vine
that knows its numbered days,
that soon with breaking shorter morns
will show a frost-full play.
Here the summer’s autumn days
draw doors to close and so prepare
this nature’s way for wintering,
beyond the fervent harvest’s care.
Thus invest itself in moment’s solitude
and that which harbors memories’ choice,
for summer’s green in autumn’s march
declares a ready restful voice,
long after all the work is done,
beyond the work day’s chatter.
Yields such in moment’s mystery,
a pleasure kept in honest batter,
to fatten autumn’s crisping
and ripening left to gold,
therein rejoice in what has been,
leaves hope, again to hold.
This moment’s mystery, my contented heart
does ride and draw a soft repose,
where pleasure’s drawn for life’s sweet blood
again drives work in hope that knows
recurring pleasures in this life,
between the peaks of seasons, thus,
and so recount the memories,
in hope return, in time, I trust.
jaybluepoems 