Pull back morn’s haze of Misty Blue,
as decades slip slowly like grains of sand;
bordered by Broken Dreams and Bruised Pieces
dawdled, delayed till Day’s End vanishes.
Within my soul, A Voice calling
drew me as smoke from burning fire;
True Light brought forth a poetic voice
calling, cheering, claiming hope.
I was Freed Again from worldly bonds;
my Broken Heart preserved on a walk
through snowy woods beyond Owl’s Song,
even deeper than December’s Moonlight.
A Poet’s Song makes music with words,
writes notes in terms of syllables,
draws the reader to the sheet music,
tapping along with hope’s melody past pain.
“My heart is steadfast, O God;
I will sing and make music
with all my soul.” Psalm 108:1
Though notes do make music; words sing their own tune. All italic words, within the poem, are titles to poems I’ve written throughout the years. Misty Blue being the first poem I remember writing as a young girl to my mother; poets are rooted in the experiences of their lives. Linking up at dVerse…