Days glide quietly by, so easily,
Worn as comfortable slippers,
Caressing a journey of tired, aching feet,
The compounded sum, of yet another year,
Pages in a seasonal tome, published
In the confetti of autumn,
Each year another chapter,
An incomplete record of events,
Becoming as ancient etchings, inked
Upon life’s papyrus, casting
About for reason, for time.
©2016, Donald Harbour
Roads always go somewhere,
Like a many branched tree
Leading to tributaries of life,
Until there is only a trickle.
Faced with dark rolling clouds,
Or rays of a sun tinted sky,
Roads point in all directions,
Exist in every imaginable climate.
No matter which choice is made,
The journey of a short stroll,
A trip of a thousand days, always,
Choices lead us back to our beginning.
The value of the moment is decision,
Courage the teacher of the effort,
Living and learning from the choice,
Is the path to find our true self.
©2012, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 