December's Quiet Song
The maracas of leafy trees
whisper rhythms to the wind,
a quiet song of December.
Four days---- left to go---
till the year ends,
and time spills forward,
its hands brushing past us,
softly, relentless.
You and I,
counting moments,
the weight of years
settling like dew-----light, inevitable
somethings are done, a lot many left undone
but the ceaseless march of time moves forward.
But here in the enchanting garden,
under the sun’s gentle gaze,
age is a story written in roots and petals,
a bench painted green with memories
What is there to grieve,
when old feels like this-----
and life hums softly
in the company of trees?
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