The Ink of (February) Poetry

I LOVE the shadow-art of February!Blue sketches on white sweeps... Ps.143:5I meditate on all Your works; I []muse on the work of Your hands. The ink of poetry runs blue where February’s shadows scrawlA minimalist’s sketch run through with whispers of a madrigalThe brunt of February days is something of an unsung giftIts spartan hues seduce our gaze to trace each hill, rill, dell and driftEvoking, somewhere deep within, a serenade that broods and soarsIn rushing ebbs and flows akin to breakers felled on far-off shores The ink of poetry runs wild in snowflake’s finest musteringBiting the cheek of Summer’s Child with Old Man Winter’s blusteringWhile gilding nature’s crook and nook with glitter that melts to the touchThus, we must be content to look and worship God who authors suchBountiful beauty for the muse, admonishing awe’s vagariesFor what is man that He should choose us to be beneficiaries …where ink of phantom poetry runs boundless as galactic sweepsAnd tickles the periphery of unplumbed, oceanic deepsAnd fills thought’s quill with lyrical longings ink cannot satisfyWhere syllable on syllable treads the holy ground of replyTo four-season astonishment; each moment primed with beckoningBecause He who allots its bent is beyond mortal reckoning The ink of poetry runs rife as February’s shadow-artThe laws of nature, love and life wreak havoc with the poet’s heartThe weight of would-be poetry presses the part that laughs and weepsWith endless possibility where poem upon poem sleepsTill the thrill of blue shadow-scrawl on February’s afternoonWakens words to a madrigal that only poem-ink can tune Janet Martin