Crumbling in Echoes

Minutes crumble in echoes 
as old age never comes
as I prose what never goes. 

Mornings spread in cellos
as strings trace our autumns 
minutes crumble in echoes. 

Evenings raise their bows
into the horizon that strums
as I prose what never goes. 

With each strum, history grows 
in a plum meadow that hums: 
minutes crumble in echoes. 

As plums tango, I, so close
fall in its stream of blossoms
as I prose what never goes. 

As my last hourglass flows, 
a memory dripping becomes 
minutes crumbling in echoes
as I prose what never goes.