I am so thankful I didn't yield to the impulse a month ago
to tear the blight and bug-stricken dahlias from the flower-garden!
They seem to have survived and oh, SO worth the wait...
where each hour is like a flower that will never bloom again!
So let's get out there and make the most of today's 'flower/hour-garden'!
My heart almost stopped this morning when at first I thought the crickets were gone.
Then hallelujah, a plucky little minstrel started cheeping,
assuring me that this sudden cool snap we are in is not the end of summer yet!
Cricket quaver starts to waver, dropping hints of Frosted Jack
Field and fallow fringed with mallow and golden rod bric-a-brac
Hill and hollow drip like tallow from a candle burning low
Where the flower of the hour weans the bower of its show
Hope and heartache war and partake of the Whisper deep within
Where a Fountain rends the mountain that would break these barks of skin
As the Giver of a river that runs rife with Reasoned Grace
Offers treasure in the measure of life’s Mercy-seasoned chase
Where the murmur that Was Summer sparks a sudden wonder-storm
Wakes a quiet kind of riot in Want’s dust-and-dream bent form
Keens elation’s revelations with a somber undertow
To remind us that behind us lie the subtle seeds we sow
Fall’s wild purple starts to sparkle along summer’s beaten path
We are always in the hallways of tomorrow’s aftermath
Where the hour is a flower, moments like petals that drip
From the spigot of a frigate laden with Time’s maiden trip
Dust soon settles ‘neath the nettles that roused rose-delighted trance
Wish and worry cannot hurry or restrain time’s song and dance
Let’s be grateful for the plateful that Mercy and goodness grant
Where each hour is a flower that falls from life’s sacred plant
Do not borrow from tomorrow, sorrow not yet yours or mine
Cricket quaver starts to waver; let’s drink Farewell like fine wine
And be thankful for the bank full of wild flowers gently felled
By the sickle from a trickle where what Was and Will Be meld
© Janet Martin
Field and fallow fringed with mallow and golden rod bric-a-brac
Hill and hollow drip like tallow from a candle burning low
Where the flower of the hour weans the bower of its show
Hope and heartache war and partake of the Whisper deep within
Where a Fountain rends the mountain that would break these barks of skin
As the Giver of a river that runs rife with Reasoned Grace
Offers treasure in the measure of life’s Mercy-seasoned chase
Where the murmur that Was Summer sparks a sudden wonder-storm
Wakes a quiet kind of riot in Want’s dust-and-dream bent form
Keens elation’s revelations with a somber undertow
To remind us that behind us lie the subtle seeds we sow
Fall’s wild purple starts to sparkle along summer’s beaten path
We are always in the hallways of tomorrow’s aftermath
Where the hour is a flower, moments like petals that drip
From the spigot of a frigate laden with Time’s maiden trip
Dust soon settles ‘neath the nettles that roused rose-delighted trance
Wish and worry cannot hurry or restrain time’s song and dance
Let’s be grateful for the plateful that Mercy and goodness grant
Where each hour is a flower that falls from life’s sacred plant
Do not borrow from tomorrow, sorrow not yet yours or mine
Cricket quaver starts to waver; let’s drink Farewell like fine wine
And be thankful for the bank full of wild flowers gently felled
By the sickle from a trickle where what Was and Will Be meld
© Janet Martin
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I hope you enjoyed your pause on this porch and thank-you for your visit!