Sonnet 414

A flash of pink, and green, now gold, then white:
All these perennial colors earth bestows,
Here spinning ever swiftly in our sight,
Thus so each season’s guidon gleams and goes.
Why does the hand of Time, this color wheel
Turn ever faster in a painted whirl
‘Til every hue on this great rounded reel
Must run together in a passioned blur?
Still truth does tell, the turning of this world
Slows every year an infinitesimal part,
But to our eyes this seems a lie fair bold
When every meted day grows ever short.
So changes then our world by sleight of hand,
Yet thus deceived, most find the circuit grand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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