Monday, January 5, 2015

Circle-Song

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The field that wore the flower where
Its yield becomes a thoroughfare
Of unborn things while winter flings
Its coat upon Time’s rusty chair

…and fills each nook and crook and roof
With diamond-stars from bars aloof
The rubric of a year its proof

...here, we from its allotment learn
The epic scope of no return
And what we know of hold-let-go
…the season-flow that fills its urn

…still, ever leads us back to where
We see the bud that breaks to bear
The bonny yield that fills the field
That sleeps beneath Time’s rusty chair

…and nook and crook and roof are brushed with diamond-dust where Winter rushed
To take a seat, put up his feet and fill his pipe with stars soft-crushed…

© Janet Martin






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