Out of the stillness of the hour
It seems to me that
I can hear the crying
Of the quiet times
That still must be… now dying.
Where laughter once
Full filled the halls with glee
There is but only a dream
Reminding me.
Would that I might achieve
That day of youth’s bright joy
Would that I might retain
For everyday this buoyancy of living
Somehow I’ve outgrown that joy.
Will I relive it ever?
Listening close
I hear the answer echoing
Throughout the silent halls,
It seems to whisper . . . “Never”.
A rocky wall, a crumbling fence
A dried-up brook, a withered vine
A fallen bough held in suspense
That rests upon a clementine,
Unkempt yew side a tumbled post
A grim reminder of neglect
While lamp to spider’s web played host
Its use long past one would suspect.
This sentry by a garden gate
With primrose path and weeds profuse
Makes statement that fair shouts “Ingrate”,
To focus thought on life’s abuse.
We’ve seen the waste misfortune brings
And many styles that pruning need
Applied not just to vernal things
All spreading hopes crave care to breed.
Claire V. Bogdanos 