Pressed like the petals of last summer’s pansies
Tucked between pages soft-weathered with wear
Lost to the world like a young woman’s fancies
Learning to grapple with fortunes of air
Touching her where she can never quite quell it
Rushing through her like an ocean, salt-starred
Parts of a poem too tender to tell it
Left to the hunger of some younger bard
Almost she hears the blue twilight come stealing
Snuffing the shadows that clung to the hill
Something akin to distant church-bells pealing
Tugs at heartstrings that her hand cannot still
Virile vibrato of fight and submission
Trembles in tempos of over-and-done
Melodies played by a master musician
Lyrics unwritten yet second to none
Time is a ticket to holes in her pockets
Places worn through that no seamstress can mend
Life lends her pictures to tender to lockets
Lost while she had other treasures to tend
Merchant of moments, sweet-dealing untwists her
Barter she must with a foe born to win
While she is learning to turn seasoned whispers
Into a poem that plays ‘neath her skin
© Janet Martin
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