Thought, like a roving, restless hand runs over curve and
line
Searching, ah, ever searching for the right word to define
The agony of letting go, the paradise of touch
Thought, like a footloose wanderer still only holds so much…
Thought, sometimes as a pauper, sometimes debonair and fat
Fumbles and reaches like a hand not knowing where it’s at
Yet with practiced persistence it scavenges, overturns
The stars out in the heavens where an unpenned poem burns
Thought groans beneath the torture of an almost-kiss
withdrawn
It melts beneath the murmur that a wayward wind can spawn
It lingers over echoes, yet dismisses in a sigh
The futile climaxes of hunger's hello and good-bye
Thought, chancellor and convict, troubadour and tyrant war
Where ever since the dawn of time poet and prudence spar
And almost it surrenders to jurisdiction of clocks
Yet cannot quite for it must find what only thought unlocks
© Janet Martin
"What a rich book might be made about buds, including, perhaps, sprouts"
~Thoreau~
