Morning Poem, August 16, 2014

End Of Summer


The mornings are grey now

no longer bright

and the evening’s cool breeze

though welcome

warns of unremitting chill.

Where is the season of green and gold

that I waited so long for?

It has passed like a dream.

There is nothing of it to remember.

My gut tightens in one moment of stillness

as I ponder plans unfulfilled

projects not accomplished

meals not savored

and words not spoken

laughter never heard.

Is the water already too cold?

Or can I immerse myself once more?

I think, once again,

“There was not enough time”

And know, at last, that even this thought

is incomplete and evanescent.

I am an old man

and have seen too many summers come and go

to rest in the belief that any gift of hours

would soothe this empty ache.

It is not that there isn’t enough time.

It is as the preacher says:

Time is not enough.


copyright 2014

This entry was posted in beauty, blogging, creative process, literature, memoir, modern poetry, mystic, new voices, poetry, poets, summer, time, writers, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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