Of Molded Strings

We sense it…

Long before the rifts

As

Love bends us

With lended gifts

While

Ordinary Disappears

Into a Blur

Of yester-years

Where

oft the kiss

Of This soft-rends

Beginnings through

With subtle ends

So

even while

We sense the tug

We smile and sing

And laugh and hug

For

 what good is

The hands that clings

To ribbons made of

Yester-things

And

what good is

The Cup we hold

If we are pining

For its mold

© Janet Martin