There is a Time
For some things there is no wrong season:
To count the tennis shoe prints in a small square of sand,
to be alive, to hear guitars play,
to sing, to dance, to love, to be together.
How much of this I have left to me I do not know.
I need not know.
The song is enough.
The breeze and the leaves and the sand are enough.
It is enough–I am enough.
Sun on back, gravel, gemstones, stories and poems are enough.
I see images shaped like trees with green leaves.
They will turn orange, yellow, red and then brown.
They will fall and die.
It will be the same with me.
Do not weep. I will still love you.
Her last poem:
There is a Time
For some things there is no wrong season:
To count the tennis shoe prints in a small square of sand,
to be alive, to hear guitars play,
to sing, to dance, to love, to be together.
How much of this I have left to me I do not know.
I need not know.
The song is enough.
The breeze and the leaves and the sand are enough.
It is enough–I am enough.
Sun on back, gravel, gemstones, stories and poems are enough.
I see images shaped like trees with green leaves.
They will turn orange, yellow, red and then brown.
They will fall and die.
It will be the same with me.
Do not weep. I will still love you.
Noorunnissa Nancy Schlessel