Till My Poems Are, No More

I bequeath to you my poems, For words are all I own-- May the images of snow and fall Bring you comfort when alone. And I will leave you all of it; The moonlight on the moor-- As well the quiet, leafy wood, Or a sunbathed distant shore. And among the rhyme and imagery; The metaphor, and theme-- You'll read of rose and morning dew, Of midnight naps, and dream. And somewhere in between the lines The fantasy turns real-- So take these words I proffer you, And touch, and taste, and feel. Amazing are the things you'll see, Like the ivy-covered wall-- Or the icy streams of diamond And the spill of waterfall. So enchanting is the moonlight, So too the autumn breeze-- Oh how I'll miss the butterflies And the stand of ancient trees. So precious is the lily pond, The wildflowers too-- Take comfort in the song of rain And the pansies playful hue. How amazing is the hummingbird In uncertain, frenzied flight-- Reminds me of the dawn and eve As they argue, day or night. And in the valley of the glen, Where stands the steeple church-- There remains a knee-high meadow, And a lovely stand of birch. So Immerse yourself in wondering, Set your spirit to the sky-- Behold as children, puffs of cloud; The bee and butterfly. And let your palette taste the wind, Hear the quiet of the snow-- While delighting in the jasmine; The sweetest scent I know. Take my words and nurture them, Kindly revel in my dream-- And keep alive the buttercup, As well the mountain stream. May you sleep the night, and linger; That my dream may carry on-- Give life to every word and thought Till the images are gone. May you celebrate the beauty; May you open every door-- Till the sun is swallowed by the sea, And my poems are, no more. ~M