Ink-invitation

 

When the urgent push of day subsides

And its remnant care waits while we rest

When flower and infant shuts their eyes

This is the hour the poet loves best

For thought is a drifter, a barefooted beauty

Thought is the hand that draws far loved ones near

And after the urgent persistence of duty

This is the hour the poet holds dear

The darkness is not a morbid, mute conclusion

Its velvet atonement spills from sable spire

Surely His goodness is new every evening

Here in the hour of poet’s desire

This is the hour of quiet compassion

Tomorrow we will be plow-men again

But this is the hour of ink-invitation

This is the hour of poet and pen

© Janet Martin