Thursday, April 3, 2014

Rebelling a mind only

The poetry of rain-song twists the air into a sigh
Where rush of eighteen-wheelers and mute moments hurry by
We cannot halt the rubric of Time’s customary mien
Of twilight over afternoon or tick-tock tambourine

Over archaic skylines dawn to midnight disappears
Face it my darling, we can never be immune to years
Subtle-soft, the hand of time strums laugh-lines where the curve
Of youth and ignorance rendered its innocence and verve

…and we could sprawl like children with our feet upon a cloud
But accruement of knowledge, love, has made us stiff and proud
And so, sedately we impose upon rain-riddled deep
A paragraph of proper prose before we go to sleep

But if we were carefree, my love, then you and I would go
And wander out among the stars like urchins through the snow
…firm attribute of middle-age exploits its faculty
We pause for one more second glance into night’s poetry

© Janet Martin

Something about the rush of an eighteen-wheeler rumbling by in the dark rain sparked...something...while I was drinking my middle-aged tea and headed for a middle-aged bedtime to read a middle-aged book;)

1 comment:

Thank you always for your visit and your thoughts.