A Poet Painting with Time

Upon a canvas vast and bright,

Where Time in hues of softest light,

A poet paints with a trembling hand,

The scenes of life, a shifting sand.

Each stroke a moment, fleeting, brief,

Yet pregnant with a world of grief,

And joy, entwined like vines that climb,

Around the pillars of this rhyme.

Behold, the sun in a golden robe,

Descending the western slope,

A fiery ball, a fleeting mime,

Casting shadows, marking time.

The moon ascends with silver grace,

A silent guardian of the space,

Where dreams take flight on wings of rhyme,

In the poet's world, a sacred clime.

The seasons dance, a waltz profound,

Their melodies, a whispered sound,

Nature's ballet in rhythmic mime,

A poet's heart, a beating time.

In Spring, the buds unfurl their grace,

A tender touch, a sweet embrace,

Life's tender shoots in verdant prime,

A canvas painted in the rhyme.

Summer's kiss, a sultry dance,

The sunlit fields, a bold romance,

The poet's brush, a master's chime,

Capturing warmth in measured time.

Autumn comes with hues so deep,

A sojourn where memories seep,

Crimson leaves in windswept clime,

A poet's palette, marking time.

Winter's breath, a frosty kiss,

The world adorned in crystal bliss,

A silent hush, a muted rhyme,

A poet's whisper through the time.

Through joy and sorrow, love and pain,

The poet weaves the endless chain,

Of moments caught in fleeting rhyme,

A creation of the hands of time.

Hence let this verse, a humble try,

To capture moments as they fly,

A poet's quest, an endless climb,

To paint with words the shifting time.

Yet as the canvas slowly dries,

And echoes fade from distant skies,

The poet rests, his soul sublime,

Content in having glimpsed the time.

For in these years,

Of laughter, love, and silent tears,

A masterpiece emerges prime,

A legacy that might outlive time.