The Seasoning of Time

Reminiscing of the Future

I was reminded of a spring,

When children scampered on the grass

Of lawns that glistened in the sun,

Without a care of anything—

Of days that swiftly came to pass

As surely as they had begun.

~

And I remembered summer times,

When sunbeams lit the hazy ways

And stirred our thoughts and stoked our dreams

Of never-ending better climes

And longer-lasting sunny days

That flowed like cool and playful streams.

~

Recalling autumn afternoons,

When shadows stretched across the path,

And colors turned, and breezes chilled,

And melancholy touched the tunes,

I learned to calm the coiling wrath…

And even memories were stilled.

~

So to imagine winter’s night,

With hearkened breath, and wobbly limb,

And dreams that seem to hold the past.

It is a crossroads in the light,

The light that hovers o’er the rim,

And holds one’s vision, true and fast.

r. nuñez, 11/2015

Hourglass

Seasons of an Age

I don’t remember that there was a spring;

It was too quick to leap into the past.

And summer, tethered to its wing,

Is also slipping there too fast.

The hues of autumn ring

With green-less drifters cast.

The winter sting

Is shortly blast.

Spring hurries by

Without a trace,

And summer, on the fly,

Is likened in its pace.

Then, throwing color to the sky,

The flame of autumn shows her face.

Now, drawing breath and uttering a sigh,

The winter ghost advances in the race.

r. nuñez, 10/2015

Attic in the Mind

The Shadow of Today

Tomorrow is the shadow of today

That waits around the corner for the sun,

And when that light has softly slipped away,

The days will all be moments, said and done.

The yesterdays are embers from the blaze

That lit the shaded attic of the mind,

Where youthful eyes had chanced upon to gaze,

And shadows lurked for them to come and find.

r. nuñez, 5/2016

A Looming Century

The Horizon of Time

It is not a new year that approaches...

It is another day as always.

It is not a new day that dawns...

it is the next hour...

not the next hour,

but the ensuing minute.

It is not the ticking minute

that we must sustain...

it is the looming century,

in which our children's children's children

plant their seeds, and dip their cups,

and lift their faces to the skies.

r. nuñez 12/2017