I was getting ready to head out the door, dumbly floored by the brooding window-scape...
suddenly completely betaken by what became this unplanned poem.
and that, my dear reader-friends,
is the tender-splendored and dominant yoke of a poet:_)
(but if she hurries, she won't be too far behind, she hopes:)
Cricket plays summer's postlude... 
Window-scapes are wonder-hued
Flower capes ravel, unglued
Cricket plays summer’s postlude
Footloose dreams meander
Up through treed fretwork we stare
Leaf-art etched on naught but air
Thought becomes a wordless prayer
Awed by Autumn’s Painter
Winter-spring-summer and fall
Moment-metered madrigal
Cloaks its circuit in a shawl
Draped in umber slumber
Em’rald, azure, cinnamon
Spills in thrills then wills undone
Soft a year is here and gone
Labelled with a number
Timeless treasure, here and now
Spills its measure, takes a bow
Yet is always full somehow
With virginal offers
Take and make the best of it
Break and seize the quest of it
Soon, too soon the zest of it
Rests in ashen coffers
Blaze of auburn, russet, maize
Gratifies the greedy gaze
Oh, but falls prey to the ways
Held in melded hours
Touch, but do not clench the fist
None can wrench or quench the grist
From the Hand that grants the mist
That unravels flowers
© Janet Martin
