This is the month

That my mother died.


The year fades fast

To memory.


It must have been written

In pencil somewhere,


On paper,

And there set in stone;


And after awhile,

It all erases.



Befuddled, perplexed;

At sevens and six;


Forwards, sideways,

And backwards:


The end comes undone

Before it’s begun.


Thus does in Time

Take concession.


And some dare to call it





©2013, Marvin Loyd Welborn

7 November 2013

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