The raw edge of a moment can slice through our thickest
skin
Right to the core that cups the storehouse of love’s grit
and grin
And it can scatter tatters like a swatch of phantom fray
That nothing holds together but the tether of today
Where, with the medium of verse the poet tries to snare
The colors of an afternoon soft-fading on thin air
Like ephemeral fabric of time’s cambric, silk and tulle
Shirred into words like stay-for-supper, yes, and wonderful
For nothing takes the place of faces sporting happiness
They fill up hollow spaces with invisible finesse
Yet, tug with tender beckoning for someone to arrange
These estranged bits and pieces into Art that will not
change
And thus the poet tiptoes over Bygone’s hallowed seal
To try to fit together pieces that Time cannot steal
(…a dash of Sonny’s freckles and sash off Missy’s frock
A splash of Johnny’s innocence, a baby’s silken lock
A little shoe, a peek-a-boo, a can-I-use-the-car
The tendril of sleep-tight and twinkle, twinkle, little star
A bright mosaic made of scattered toys, a tear to kiss
The endless to-do list on hold for joys too dear to miss
A book to read the umpteenth time, supper served in three shifts
And oh the beaming face behind a birthday cake and gifts
A line laden with living proof of busy family
Making a home from walls and roof, that else mere house would be
And lest dear mother might forget the beauty midst the mess
As love and care add hints of wear to her once-raven tress
With slam of door and messy floor and smudge of window-art
A Poem finds a way to turn them into works of heart)
© Janet Martin
