Earth Always Responds...(to the tender touch of Father Time)

PAD Challenge day 25: For today's prompt, write a response poem.

Song of Solomon 2: 10-13 (BSB)

My beloved calls to me,

“Arise, my darling.

Come away with me, my beautiful one.

For now the winter is past;

the rain is over and gone.

The flowers have appeared in the countryside;

the season of singingc has come,

and the cooing of turtledoves

is heard in our land.

The fig tree ripens its figs;

the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.

Arise, come away, my darling;

come away with me, my beautiful one.”

Earth starts to shed its dormant hues, where nature’s gaberdine

Of brown and gray is woven through with threads of verdant green...

Upon a loom we cannot see we sense its shuttles hum

To trim the limb of barren tree with hints of more to come...

Earth starts to shed its dormant hues, where nature’s gaberdine

Of brown and gray is woven through with threads of verdant green

Upon a loom we cannot see we sense its shuttles hum

To trim the limb of barren tree with hints of more to come

Soon still bedraggled sweeps will beam, where warmer winds caress

Earth’s weathered countenance will gleam with Mercy’s promises

The canvas where spent generations toiled and tilled remains

(We too must bear the castigation Adam’s curse sustains)

How often we begin to think that springtime is amiss

Only to be rebuffed with pink petal-confetti’s kiss

Only to be awestruck anew by ways we cannot change

On an established avenue that none can rearrange

The Maker of heaven and earth keeps every vow He makes

He tunes time’s tethered tide where birth and death’s season-surf breaks

Across the rise and fall of hill and dell His fervor spills

Merlot bud-beakers pulse and swell with favor He instills

Annual metamorphoses-es always steal the show

An unplumbed vault of happiness-es bound to overflow

Where vistas, still silence-immersed in April’s spartan scrim

Are like an orchestra about to burst into full hymn

Earth always responds to the tender touch of Father Time

She blushes as a rush of splendor rises to her clime

As monotones of brown and gray give way to green and gold

And color-worlds about to play May’s wonders to behold

© Janet Martin

Annual metamorphoses-es always steal the show...

An unplumbed vault of happiness-es bound to overflow...