.
Time is the gardener, blind and old,
who trims with shears of tarnished gold;
pruning reality, taking hold
and clipping immortality.
.
Still, the fruit tree bends and sways.
It’s fallen crop on windswept days
will nurture on in countless ways;
it writes its own reality.
.
Copyright: Lorraine Voss
Lorraine Voss (aka Ven) 