SONNET
Ever the youngest child, the little girl
Who finds the twilight world a mural death,
Will find the hours that pass in blinding whirl
A partial answer, told in quickening breath
By the Evening who, to rush the time,
Has stolen hours from his brother, Day,
And now returns them with a mocking mime,
For, at a time so late, what good are they?
To wait till time of twilight to enjoy
The hours that always must be spent before
Is humanity's vain attemptings to employ
The "rainy-day savings"philosophy as more
Than it can hope to offer. Just destroy
The hope for what lies beyond the present's door.
Susan J. Skinner
July 20, 1964
copyright 2011/all rights reserved
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