Of He or She Who Hears It...

A slope soft-snowed with daisies and a lazy brook beneath

A summer-stroll while bitter cold strews stars on winter’s heath

A tempest, primed and potent in the steady, ready eyes

Of he or she who dares to dip a quill into thought’s sighs

A truth too keen to utter in the noise of stuttered speech

A hill soft-green where winter’s lean, blue late-day shadows reach

A world not fully fashioned yet within the stalwart gaze

Of he or she who dares to probe thought’s spark into full blaze

The baritone of low-flung cloud above mist-shrouded dell

And, oh my love, the telling of a tear that stilly fell

Where the hand is a Maestro and the silence like a sea

In he or she who wills the quill to spill in poetry

Who knows what touch will render; ah, a pen holds more than ink

As it corrals the splendor of thought-pictures, bronze-gray-pink

Where what is not yet written presses hard against the bones

Of he or she who bears a dam of waiting-to-be poems 

© Janet Martin

...to survive the ages; to be the little, brittle but dearly-loved book,
takes time.
A dream that did not die, birthed into book!
so, to the would-be-book-builder, don't give up!