Previous Challenge Entry (Level 1 – Beginner)
Topic: Season(s) of a year or life (01/13/11)
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TITLE: TIME CONTROL | Previous Challenge Entry
By Lillian Rhoades
01/20/11 -
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Who ever said that death and taxes were life's only certainties forgot to add time. If death is every man's destiny, taxes every man's nightmare, then time, described by Longfellow as Sands of Time, is every man's gift.
I did not want the evening to end. We had such a good time making S'mores. The girls trampled through brush and found long twigs, while Ted and the boys gathered bricks to keep the fire from spreading. Everyone pitched in to bring logs from the shed. As evening fell, we all sat around the fire as flames from the fire in the makeshift fire pit cast a glow on tree branches and fell clear across the field. If I could only sift the sands of time and hold those grains of special moments forever.
Time is silent
We hear it when it's gone
It harbors things we won't forget
And tempers all that we regret
Dear Diary
Indian Summer. I've always thought it referred to a change in seasons, and named by Native Americans. Now, I know. No one really knows for sure. One thing is certain, it's a great time of year to prepare for the harsh season ahead. I wonder how many Indian summers in my life that I let go of a chance to gather up grains of blessing for times of hard trials ahead?
I'm enjoying what Oliver Wendell Holmes calls an Indian summer of serene widowhood.Although summer's gone and took my flower with it, I marvel at the unimaginable beauty that decorates the trees with colors of every hue. Pretty soon, they too will respond to Nature's command. Even nature is time-controlled. I'll have to wait until next summer to wear my end of the year bargains. Seems as if I just bought them, and now it's time to pack they away.
At summer's final curtain call
Where does autumn get its cue?
When balmy breezes flirt with fall
How does Nature know that autumn's due?
Dear Diary,
Where have the years gone? Time is not marching on, it's sprinting towards life's finish line. Several days after Christmas, a day that begged for hot chocolate, the whole gang gathered up their sleds, and headed for the hill near the high school. Since there were only three sleds, the youngest shared a sled with his older sister. The hill glistened with newly fallen snow, and the sun sported its brightest light that shone from a cloudless sky. Although I kept the car running intermittently, I was amazed that no one accepted my invitation to "warm up." I suppose if laughter could warm you up, then everyone was on fire. Since that day, more sand has slipped through the hour glass of time. First cars replaced sleds and college dorms have replaced sleepovers at Grandma's house. Change will come and will not wait.
Outside my window
Stand the big Maple, undressed
Brilliant rays invade bare branches
Bends to cover modesty
Within, I share their nudity
Time will not wait for me.
Dear Diary
Another year has gone, and the sands of time keep moving. There's no way to know what changes will come next year, but I must gather up this year's grains of memory, hold them tight, and cherish what time has given.
I will no longer wander
Where green grass withers
And brown leaves lay
Nor yearn for yesterday
Let me frolic in today
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