Vanishing Hours

In the gray fading hours of my visions,

trees in the apple orchard are spinning

like dark red ribbons, the meadows

below the ecru hills are whirling into

a shadowy golden hue; memories

are vanishing into the shadows of a

shade of obviate obscurity. I smell

the sere earth, no longer damp and

life giving, now merely russet colored

dust and strangeness. I watch the slow

whisperings of lost moments falling into

the heat of the summer sun. I think of

childhood things, of special moments,

surrounding me, breathing slowly with

long sighs of a special calm.

The shifting of days and nights,

alterations in the air, and unease

in my flesh and bones, foretell the

coming of a new time, one of shuffling

feet, and recollections lost. Where do

we go from here, from this pleasant

place of familiarity, from the safety of

this location that is known? It is the

unknown, which now beckons us, we

with wrinkles and the glint of gray, and

shuffled feet: It is a place of which we

have heard, but never experienced: Is

it a place of light, or darkness, one of

ancient verses and songs of angels, or

merely damp soil which will cover a pine

tomb filled with ashen bones?

© Copyright, 2014, James G. Piatt.
All Rights Reserved.