Tuesday, January 8, 2019

Part of the Purpose of Poetry







To touch that much-loved clime once more
Where soon morn's boon is borne away
To taunt us from a mist-kissed shore
Soft-sketched with scenes of yesterday

To trace the place beyond our reach
To feel its tender spiel once more
To wander down a silver beach
Washed with whisper-capped waves of yore

To pause because, caught on the air
We sense a flare of purple-gold
And petal snow soft-scattered where
Earth wears a garden white and cold

To smile a while because we learn
To realize the size of This
Is soon the Thing that fills the Urn
With ashes of what today is

To choose to make the most of now
And thank the poet with a pen
Because ink rhyme-and-verse somehow
Allows us to return again

© Janet Martin

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