I cannot know which sunrise is the last;
by Barry Middleton
the sunny days still call me out of doors.
The rainy days are for the books amassed,
for times when pure baptismal water pours.
And dark gray skies bring out my memories
of love affairs and long forgotten days,
and hopes for better times, and desperate pleas
for light to lift the sullen fog and haze.
The seasons turn like pages in a book,
and once the page is turned we can't go back,
for no one ever gets a second look.
The story ends and then we fade to black.
Still age and illness come to mock my fears,
so I must pray for this despair to pass.
The end of day awaits my final tears,
and there I pause as sand falls through the glass.