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