Nancy L. Meek

WAYLAY THE MORROW

Evening is leisurely falling
beyond these lengthening trees…
where mockingbirds teeter, calling
to the lawn… the sky… the breeze.

The sun, in slow reluctant gasps,
lets go the day with blue… then pink.
In sacred awe… my hands clasp
to hold it fast… but, alas, it sinks.

My thoughts fly to vacant eyes
beyond my horizon… to lands afar,
that will not see these rays arise,
but darkness… compliments of war.

As merging shadows fade to black,
as earth and man converge as one
beyond these trees, I, solemn, lack
the urge to speed the morrow’s sun.