The Yfory* Tower
“Tomorrow never comes,” they told me,
because, by the time it gets here,
it’s already today.
All my tomorrows are woven into today’s
threads of mist that weave silk scarves
around the open-mouthed trees,
ensuring their silence
Silence, save for click of cat’s claws,
slither of pen over page, tapping of keys,
letters turned into words, words that worm
their way over the page, soundless, into my head.
Geese fly high, arrowing their way to the south.
Autumn is on the wing as days shorten.
Cold weather will be here tomorrow
even though they tell me that tomorrow never comes.
Beethoven rewrites the Fifth. I refuse to open the door
when the postmen knocks, bearing his fatal message.
I guess he’ll be back tomorrow, although they tell me
that tomorrow never comes.
Yfory*:
Yfory, the Ivory Tower, means tomorrow in Welsh.
rogermoorepoet 
The Yfory Tower paints a lovely correlation among autumn, aging, and the transitory illusion of time. I love that this isn’t maudlin. I don’t care for maudlin, especially when it can be replaced by painting beauty through life events. Just read/watched your Autumn postcard. Beautiful, as always. Your friend, Chuck
On Mon., Oct. 14, 2019, 11:34 a.m. rogermoorepoet, wrote:
> rogermoorepoet posted: ” The Yfory* Tower “Tomorrow never comes,” they > told me, because, by the time it gets here, it’s already today. All my > tomorrows are woven into today’s threads of mist that weave silk scarves > around the open-mouthed trees, ensuring their silence Silenc” >
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I loved discovering the yfory / ivory tower. This was a fun one to write. Maudlin is good: especially after alcohol, the only time it’s permitted, especially when accompanied by tears and song and memories of the old country, wherever that is! We have a word for this in Welsh: hiraeth … it’s a combination of remembering, yearning, and longing to be home. No similar word in English, and homesick doesn’t work at all, not in this context.
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