The world tilts far enough now Where summer is almost a secret, And lifetimes can easily pass in the still air.
During our walks, then, Over brilliant orange, gold and new sky, Her sadness came to be: Neatly placed Into the yielding grasp Of a freshly fallen maple leaf. Then, sealed into a shiny blue envelope: Scribbled on, When short notes were a thing Of long Sunday afternoons.
Moving water is still great at counting time now, And will soon lap at the stone steps Of a clapboard church out there, Hosting the wailing choirs Of straggled people turned sane again.
Sam A. Flanagan
This article appears in ‘Time is Running Out’.