Her Saturday is slowly inching away ..
Eyelids grow heavy , timberland begins to darken ..
The music of life slows a beat , thrilled voices drop an octave ,
gradually cascade , methodically erased from creations sweet song ..
Sometimes late afternoon is a silent movie , droning on till the final curtain call ...
Well intended thespians have no stage , the leader of the band is without a public address , the speaker no podium , the lion tamer with no whip to crack , the pastor with no flock to lead to the River Jordan ..
The poetess with her priceless Saturday on paper , tucked away in a shirt pocket , to be absorbed and read aloud tomorrow ...