The Ink of (February) Poetry

I LOVE the shadow-art of February!

Blue sketches on white sweeps...

Ps.143:5

I meditate on all Your works;
I [b]muse on the work of Your hands.

 

The ink of poetry runs blue where February’s shadows scrawl

A minimalist’s sketch run through with whispers of a madrigal

The brunt of February days is something of an unsung gift

Its spartan hues seduce our gaze to trace each hill, rill, dell and drift

Evoking, somewhere deep within, a serenade that broods and soars

In rushing ebbs and flows akin to breakers felled on far-off shores

The ink of poetry runs wild in snowflake’s finest mustering

Biting the cheek of Summer’s Child with Old Man Winter’s blustering

While gilding nature’s crook and nook with glitter that melts to the touch

Thus, we must be content to look and worship God who authors such

Bountiful beauty for the muse, admonishing awe’s vagaries

For what is man that He should choose us to be beneficiaries

…where ink of phantom poetry runs boundless as galactic sweeps

And tickles the periphery of unplumbed, oceanic deeps

And fills thought’s quill with lyrical longings ink cannot satisfy

Where syllable on syllable treads the holy ground of reply

To four-season astonishment; each moment primed with beckoning

Because He who allots its bent is beyond mortal reckoning

The ink of poetry runs rife as February’s shadow-art

The laws of nature, love and life wreak havoc with the poet’s heart

The weight of would-be poetry presses the part that laughs and weeps

With endless possibility where poem upon poem sleeps

Till the thrill of blue shadow-scrawl on February’s afternoon

Wakens words to a madrigal that only poem-ink can tune

Janet Martin