Drifting we do from early bud, to all but ash and ground
Happiness is a lonely whisper,
Amongst this bustling crowd.
Snap of fingers echo’s, from a hindsight setting hand,
Dreams sit behind the cusp of yesterday’s forgotten,
More lay waiting, beyond tomorrows remembered land.
Moments of content are few, as flakes in the autumn snow,
All must be held with a rose clasp,
Better to whether the thorn, than wince, and regretful let them go.
Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.