~~~ Enchante' ~~~
~ Enchante' ~
How does one write, without lauding the flowers,
Ashen moon, and her son, betwixt frore midnight hours?
Or pencil a verse, of a debonnaire nurse,
Of affectionate care, commandeering your stare?
Then I’ll wager a prize, that you’ll mention her eyes, and
Her features, so fair, tumbling honey-toast hair.
Now glance up above, at unfathomable love,
Without uttering the stars, limning Saturn and Mars;
Then scribble your words, never referencing birds;
Nor citrus-washed rays, flooding fine Summer days.
Would thou speak of her touch, censor feelings so sweet,
From the top of her head, to the tips of her feet?
Unsee cursive visions; undo expositions;
Drain colours from the bow and then straighten it so?
Unheard scathed remarks, nay unstriking flint sparks,
To unpen fervent lines, yea, forget earnest chimes,
That were ripening you, could you make them untrue,
Just by sketching with soul, wrapped in ethers of blue?
So, next time you ink, on your page, halt and think, of
How blessed that you are, to express who we are...