A Poem By Jane Tawel
Here, Autumn slips in slowly,
Like a mother, she checks her sleeping child;
Tiptoeing into our rooms
Letting lengthening shadows obscure her smile.
Here, Summer runs off swiftly,
Like a child late for a play-date;
She laughs away the poignant dusk,
As she fades from our view.
Here, the Spring is remembered sweetly,
And Time is an old woman rocking in her creaky chair.
And no more come the Seasons, but one.
It is always hoarding Winter now,