Friday, September 20, 2013


It is too much to paint in word
This death of gentian, larkspur, rose
As summer’s azure shutters close
Above earth’s mesa, tangled, blurred

Spring’s garden of dirt-dreams renewed
And bare feet dancing on its path
 Boasts a bedraggled aftermath
Of fantasies tarnished, subdued

Soon, soon this faithful soil will sleep
Pitied by Mother Nature, she
Blankets its girth, soft, lavishly
With leaf-song drifting to its deep

Ah, we have gleaned her moments bare
Fine mingling of despair and hope
Flings thought-endearments to the air

It is too much for scripted rhyme
Remembrance wields a two-edged blade
As all these precious hours are laid
Beneath the cloud-shadows of Time

© Janet Martin

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