A slope soft-snowed with daisies and a lazy brook beneath
A summer-stroll while bitter cold strews stars on winter’s
heath
A tempest, primed and potent in the steady, ready eyes
Of he or she who dares to dip a quill into thought’s sighs
A truth too keen to utter in the noise of stuttered speech
A hill soft-green where winter’s lean, blue late-day shadows
reach
A world not fully fashioned yet within the stalwart gaze
Of he or she who dares to probe thought’s spark into full
blaze
The baritone of low-flung cloud above mist-shrouded dell
And, oh my love, the telling of a tear that stilly fell
Where the hand is a Maestro and the silence like a sea
In he or she who wills the quill to spill in poetry
Who knows what touch will render; ah, a pen holds more than
ink
As it corrals the splendor of thought-pictures,
bronze-gray-pink
Where what is not yet written presses hard against the bones
Of he or she who bears a dam of waiting-to-be poems
© Janet Martin
...to survive the ages; to be the little, brittle but dearly-loved book,
takes time.
A dream that did not die, birthed into book!
so, to the would-be-book-builder, don't give up!
takes time.
A dream that did not die, birthed into book!
so, to the would-be-book-builder, don't give up!
