Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Where Not All Poems Spill In Ink...



 Today's page is rain-thrummed gray...
but we may still spill songs to it
Happy second-last day of November!

And snuffed window-scapes ‘neath its tide
Grows pale; the grail that pours today
Refurbishes the countryside
Where we, wide-eyed artists, attend
Its poetry as yet, unpenned

Today is like a page that waits
To wear what madrigals we spill
Before dusk’s lowering of gates
Obliterates the moor and hill
When by the fireside we sit
To read poems as yet, un-writ

How vague seems unshaped poetry  
We dip into a sea of thought
Where what we think no one can see
Becomes the sum of actions wrought
And what we surmised was not much
Is immortalized by our touch

We are all authors of a kind
No one is insignificant
The poetry we leave behind
Is like a self-signed testament
Where not all poems spill in ink
Yet spell far more than we may think

© Janet Martin

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