Monday, December 9, 2013

Of Flowers and Futility

We cannot quench the tide that steals the hour
Or press back into bud unfolded bloom
Miniscule moment; mute and mammoth pow’r
Of jubilee and weeping by the tomb
As on this surging once-upon-a-time
We live love’s poetry of now-to-then
In sonnet, free verse, stilted lilt and rhyme
Of flowers thrilling, spilling to the glen
Darling, how futile is the yearning tear
Can anyone afford to stand and stare?
While moments pour into the atmosphere
And none of us can go from here to there
There are no compromises with a clock
Let’s brave the craving wave of tick and tock

The flower of the field must fall away
And we are like the little flowers too
Youth surely is the smiling month of May
Of greenest greens and laughter’s bluest blue
The essence of a moment stuns our grasp
Its staccato a chant of year on year
As autumn’s presence severs soft, we clasp
The echo of those dances we hold dear
Darling, the gossamer of gold and gray
Entwines its tendrils round about the heart
And even as the petals fall away
We recognize the hope its seeds impart
Turning our faces to Time’s gale we brave
Its treasure-trove travail toward the grave

How futile then to weep for what is not
Or urge into fruition yesterday
The hunger of an ever-pining thought
Is but to purge the passion of today
Darling, the door to yesterday is barred
Its farewell borne on midnight’s begging breeze
Relinquishing fragmented memories
Like leaves that scuttle over winter’s yard
Frolic of freedom spirals to the sky
Love’s monumental Rembrandts sealed in thought
Of babies in our arms before the cry
Of something stronger drew them from their cot
We wave from windows as our whispers burn
Kissing the air with prayer for their return

© Janet Martin

I sort of 'puttered' at this poem throughout the day the end the last stanza I wrote became the first stanza and vice-versa

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