Heart of a Woman, Oops, I Mean Parts of a Poem...

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