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Selection 8 of


by John Kent
On the spacious porch
of the old Victorian house
facing the bay,
where cool breezes wet down
summer heat
and white sails float
with graceful ease
on the calm waters
of the inlet,
the street at its end
rests peacefully
under the abundant shade of an
old oak tree.
Standing strong
and thick around its trunk
...it promises eternity.

But in the early twilight,
wizened by a swiftness of years,
I know even this oak
will one day fall
as everything and everyone does.
Eternity is left to God
and we are left with a sliver of time.
In the twilight
I atttempt to recapture those fleeing years
as the breezes whisper
and wash over my face
leaving a breath of vitality and youthfulness.
From the porch,
I marvel at the sky
neither blue or gray,
turning its colors brilliant
at the edge of Heaven.

On the porch...still,
as twilight fades into darkness
and stars shine their light...
through barriers of time,
I know even stars are not eternal
and although their light is still visible,
many have died eons ago.
I think of my motherless children,
off somewhere
hoping they are courting their days
in worthwhile ways.

Grown old with this house,
I have come to this twilight
and have seen the golden rim of the sun
fall behind the hills
on the other side of the bay.

Selection 8 of

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