Transitory
“Look up,” she cried,
And the rains came swiftly,
Overwhelming her youth
With migrant purpose.
Summer’s demise,
So abrupt,
Interrupted her sound-scape,
Giving her pause.
“Look around,” she said,
And autumn bowed to her,
A colorful character
In shades of golden afternoons.
Sequestered among
Such vividness,
She found solace and comfort
Through the grace of experience.
“Look up,” she laughed,
And silver dusted her hair,
Weighing the diversity
She wore as a crown.
Abstract changes
Became her teacher,
A benevolent
Yet unforgiving presence.
“Look around,” she said,
And spread her arms wide,
Dancing in the perspective
Of winter.
This life is transitory,
Best marked
By the seasoning
Of one’s attitude.
Copyright © Pamela Davison | Year Posted 2005
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