Mid-September, at midday;
the random breezes blow;
sunlight dispels the gloom away,
in summer's fading glow.
Clouds are artful things above,
they make an artist want to paint;
things of nature I so love,
today, there is no taint.
On the porch, I sit and read,
and relish in the warmth of day;
reflecting not on wanted need,
but on how time, it does not stay.
So we must glory in the present,
and gather in, its saving grace;
basking in things most pleasant,
we put tomorrow in it's place.
That life is in the here and now,
in this moment we call time;
not the who or what or how,
but in life's poetic rhyme.