She sifted the power to express, in the palms of her
dainty hands. Smudged deep in carmine ink etched
clear upon the pallid sand. ‘Pledge me good in wine
and words to run through fields and sing with birds.’
To the wanton will of poetic hands, poured a wit so
deep and a skill sublime. She therefore bid presence
of mind to bolster creed — whether reason or rhyme.
‘Nor mind nor soul. Lo! only an aching heart has the
power to conceive perpetual work of art.’
Blessed are the ones with robust hands;
Faced with feat of tomorrow’s demand.
Photo credits: www.steveweed.com
Posted for Poetics @ dVerse Poets Pub
Posted on Poetry Pantry @ Poets United