Cutting-room Floor

The pen weighs heavy in her hand

Reluctant to heed thought’s command

As minuet and silhouette

Scatter like shards on living’s sand

And where a moment used to be

She sifts its air for poetry

An echo of a laughing child

Or haste’s redemption; tears run wild

Raging repentance and romance

Are intricately reconciled

And hope aligns with sympathy

Lacing the air with poetry

There is no ocean in a shell

No turning back after farewell

We face the morn; past’s pages torn

To drift in thought’s infinite swell

Where now and then passion runs free

Splashing the air with poetry

She leans upon her staff of ink

And where dusk drained the day of drink

Dawn breaks through bars of blue and stars

Life's cutting-room is bathed in pink

Soon it will fade to what must be

Of memories and poetry

© Janet Martin