Longing is a tortured serenade
Dripping from the spires of July
It hovers in the misty, midnight glade
And trembles in the breeze’s lowered sigh
I offer up a word of feeble thanks
To drown its melody of raging thirst
Fear resurrects its dark and devious ranks
Longing quivers like an arrow cursed
What was, what is, and what is yet to be
Fulfillment beats in half-breaths and eighth-notes
Moments unfold, now becomes history
Longing snuffs the thank-you in my throat
I close my eyes; its song is raw and low
Fear ravages the still and stringent air
Longing aches in rhythms sad and slow
Until my thank-you turns into a prayer
The tortured serenade becomes a hymn
Filling the emptiness in longing’s gaze
It dances on the whisper of the wind
Thanksgiving turns my longing into praise
© Janet Martin
Longing is a tortured serenade and yet a seed to nurture as you have shown.
ReplyDeleteWell sung Janet.
Thank-you TUG, yes, there is an element of longing that keeps the drive alive, but there are longings too intense for word! These we nurture with thanks. Thank-you again for your visit and thoughts.
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