Might well be
The last song
We sing,

From now,
Unto Winter,
And on
Into Spring.

No one
Can tell me
What the morrow
Will bring;

This much
Of learning,
I’ve learned
If nothing.

No one
Can foresee
What tomorrow
May mean.

No such
Comprehending,
Or so thus
May seem.

What comes
Here, and after,
Awaits
To be seen.

So, sing then!
Make happen,
Whatever
May bring:

This! then,
May well be
The last song
We sing;

Tomorrow
Will stay where
The morrow
Has been.

©2014, Marvin Welborn
22 September 2014.