For Far More Than Fact, Look Again

The wage of work is weariness well-earned, then sweet night’s rest

The art of happiness is found within the human breast

The circuit of four seasons filled with good and ill galore

Is but the opportunity to trust and worship more

The river that is silenced  ‘neath iced sheath of ebony

Will soon break through its bars to rush in ripples to the sea

The gardener that waits while winter spills its chilled repose

Knows soon she will return to sun-warm dirt between her toes

Duty’s demands, though it may callous hands, never the heart

Where earth and all therein is like a showcase filled with art

Where it takes more than eyes to see and more than ears to hear

Where sight and sound are holy ground, not simply sod-veneer

These matters of bare fact are far more than philosophy

Each day is like a page full-packed with almost poetry

Where, while the wild gale blows the rose may bloom before its time

When teased to life with nothing but the wink of ink and rhyme

© Janet Martin