Saturday, May 11, 2013



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

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Thank-you for stopping by my porch! I hope you were blessed!