Thursday, November 27, 2014


The threads of a poem spiral from a loom
As freely to fingers of dish-cloth and broom
As to he who ponders on palettes of silk
The why and the wherefore of breath-to-breath ilk

We never know what colors may unfurl
Welkin of willow, pink laughter of girl
Dapple of sunbeam or purple of mist
Dusk as it tiptoes in, moody-blue kissed

This is not any old day that we hold
This is a once-in-a-lifetime gray-gold
This is a stanza, when it disappears
We cannot alter with ten-thousand tears

Soft through our bearing the poem of life
Tempers the hand with the pen, joy and strife
Render their portions of hold and let go
Humble words tumble like ink-gilded snow

…weaving from threads as they slither and slip
Heavy with honey and gall through our grip
Pictures to keep as Time torments our grasp
Changing and changing the colors we clasp

© Janet Martin

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Thank you for your visit to this porch. I'd love to hear if or how this post/poem touched you!