Poet's Paradise...

Thought, like a roving, restless hand runs over curve and line

Searching, ah, ever searching for the right word to define

The agony of letting go, the paradise of touch

Thought, like a footloose wanderer still only holds so much…

Thought, sometimes as a pauper, sometimes debonair and fat

Fumbles and reaches like a hand not knowing where it’s at

Yet with practiced persistence it scavenges, overturns

The stars out in the heavens where an unpenned poem burns

Thought groans beneath the torture of an almost-kiss withdrawn

It melts beneath the murmur that a wayward wind can spawn

It lingers over echoes, yet dismisses in a sigh

The futile climaxes of hunger's hello and good-bye

Thought, chancellor and convict, troubadour and tyrant war

Where ever since the dawn of time poet and prudence spar

And almost it surrenders to jurisdiction of clocks

Yet cannot quite for it must find what only thought unlocks

© Janet Martin

"What a rich book might be made about buds, including, perhaps, sprouts"

~Thoreau~