There is NEVER a dull moment in an ink-spinner's world
everyone and everything is fodder for the craft
where dusk is sort of like a blue echo-banner unfurled
that threads the loom with freshest plume of loved-longed-learned-limped-laughed
Like tincture in a picture waiting to be autographed...
Words spoken keep walking
Words written keep talking!
From wisps within and threads of grin-and-bear it
consequence
From fallen leaves and eaves that drip with Awesome Imminence
From fantasy and reverie and oceanic surge
Of fronds that weave the tapestry of both ballad and dirge
From sum of season spent, or crumbs that fall from nature’s
flare
From faces, places, graces that we touch, miss, love,
kiss, wear
From colors we call Life where Farewell’s knife cuts keen
and oft
As ink-fodder runs rife from wells hard-pressed, yet
whisper-soft
From starry eyes unraveled, from a maze sighs traveled
through
From strings that spin This Thing that weds wonder with
hunger’s woo
From hold and letting go and oh, from Vintage
Bitter-sweet
Culled from the hull of moments that we crushed beneath
our feet
From tattered fray of yesterday, from hope’s Intangible
They spin mementos from the pathos of strung syllable
From fragments of hearts broken, from the moan of wind
and sea
With words, never yet spoken, Ink-spinners weave Poetry
© Janet Martin
