Of This...

 

If I should dare to wander where the feet of angels fear to tread

And yield to worlds that want unfurls with abandon inside my head

Then, linger where fools stand and stare at faded font of yesterday

Ah! I might miss the bloom of this before its petals drift away

If I with skilled desire should build a bridge that only thought can cross

And boldly woo a rendezvous with what will never be or was

Then vainly pause a bit because pleasure and pain must have its dance

Ah! I might miss the thrill of this, while lost in Fantasy’s romance

If I should long for some lost song because of how it made me feel

Ah! I might miss the hymn of This, where original anthems peal

To interweave with what I grieve bequeathed at birth to dusk-wreathed death

To softly kiss the joy of This as it unravels breath by breath

If I should scorn the brimming morn while hungering for what is not

And feast my eyes upon a prize contrived by idle hands of thought

Ah! I might waste the pleasing taste of sweet, sweet berries on my spoon

And I might miss the bliss of This; a glorious summer afternoon

© Janet Martin