Poetry is a pen’s luxury
September is the weather of wishes
Love is a language disguised by heaps
Of laundry and dirty dishes
Hope is the smile of a flowering child
A gate is the sky of the morning
Want is that breath-stealing blindness of touch
Tiptoeing in without warning
Prayer is the feather whereby faith takes flight
Song is the laughter of feeling
Goodness and mercy, ah, this is the night
Dazzled with star-sequined ceiling
Word is a warrior wafted on air
Thought is a dreamer’s vexation
A book is a paper chariot, love
Time is a timeless temptation
Summer is sorrow gift-wrapped in blue eyes
Toil is a tempest of trouble
Chance is a fool whereon fools rely
Life is a wee-bitty bubble
© Janet Martin
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