Saturday, August 20, 2016

August Ink









There’s something about August ink
It never drains the poet’s pen
But bleeds in cricket-song and gold
And begs the poet, ‘write again

There’s something about August ink
It probes the poet’s in-most part
As bronzed suggestions of farewell
Begin to swell deep in the heart

There’s something about August ink
It runs where tousled gardens lie
In reams of green, gold, red, orange, pink
A color mass beneath blue sky

The ink of August does not beg
But twists its verse in flower-vines
It taunts the poet in her bed
To grapple with its half-writ lines

There’s something about August ink
That keens a lump within the throat
Because the poet kens the hints
Which wean the thread from nature’s coat

© Janet Martin




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