As our years hurry on and the seasons change
a small part of us will always remain
like the fragrance of roses
long after they’re gone
we’re caught in the
embroidered nets
of creation.

It is
a time
of pause…
a silent space
between the seasons
and each breath we take
of some greater majesty unseen
goes beyond to infinity.

Early Winter clouds –
the cathedrals
of sky…
make no sound
as they go
slipping by
when Spring saplings emerge
from the navel of earth –
hummingbirds kiss
the lips
of hyacinths.

When the sun peeks
between Fall leaves
jeweled with raindrops –
they slant radiant light
upon scent-brimmed cups
of daffodils
and winking
with painted petals
and the blue sky pales
to a saffron yellow
as Summer sun bids
a horizon goodbye
twilight fades –
another day dies.

Stars hang thick in the sky
as the sickle-shaped moon rides
canopied high in the arch of night
with silent sparks of fireflies play
a night bird stands on tiptoe listening
to scraping sounds of cricket violins.

The seasons in their sacred communing…
are the minstrels of change and of promise.

© Literary Remains

17 thoughts on “Ecclesiastes

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