A poem leaps, lilts, swirls and sings
Syllabic waterfall
A poem may not change the world
But it can cheer the heart
A eureka of joy unfurled
Where secret sorrows smart
A poem is a butterfly
Perched on spring’s budded hold
From a cocoon of winter-sky
Hope’s welkin wings unfold
A poem is a gift composed
Of ink-wrought counterpanes
Where words weave wonders juxtaposed
With troubles aches and strains
A poem probes beneath Façade
To tug at tender strings
That keep the soul attuned to God
Amidst a mess of Things
A poem leaps, lilts, swirls and sings
Syllabic waterfall
It tumbles from ten-thousand springs
In metered madrigal
A poem paints its scenery
With ordinary jot
While spilling an art gallery
To theaters of thought
Ah, here a darling daisy beams
And there a meadow-brook
Its bank, a haven for daydreams
A fishing pole, a book
A poem unveils city-streets
Upon a parchment tray
It teases sound of hurried feet
To paper-work-a-day
A poem is the salt sea-air
Where farewells sweep and surge
And Poem is a tender prayer
As seasons ebb and merge
A poem is Beauty at large
An earnest work of praise
God, guide those who shoulder the charge
Of unearthing its phrase
...because a poem is far more
Than fickle fits of rhyme
A poem keens us to a Door
That ushers us from Time
© Janet Martin
