To Think That Poetry Runs Dry...

To think that poetry runs dry

Were to lose awestruck ‘wonder-why’

Were to lose sight of sky-sea-sod

Were to lose faith in faithful God

Were to succumb to fear and dread

Were to forget to pray instead

Were to be deaf and dumb and blind

And be no longer sound of mind

Were to despair in discontent

Exchanging laughter for lament

Exchanging love for bitter feud

Forgetting God’s mercy renewed

Forgetting to give thanks and sing

For we owe all and own nothing

To think that poetry runs dry

Would be to hate Beauty’s reply

To find no joy in bloom-strummed fence

Or in cherubic innocence

Or boyish mischief’s guilty look

Or worlds away inside a book

Or find only a doleful gloom

When beholding a mop and broom

Not feeling blissful as a dream

When windows sparkle and floors gleam

When supper waits in garden-plots

Then finds its way to pans and pots

When feeling glad to be alive

Is like a God-to-man high-five

To think that poetry runs dry

Would be to just lie down and die

And not put flowers in a jar

To marvel at each detailed star

No chuckle for the curious pup

No meadow for the buttercup

No back-front porch comradery

No coffee-break or cuppa-tea

No to-do lists or curly-tops

Or tree limbs threaded with rain-drops

Or grins that steal your very breath

Only the sins that hasten death

And there would be no you-and-me

If poetry would cease to be

© Janet Martin