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Iambic undulations roar my “Vox Poetica”.

of “One, and two, and three, and four”,

The master of rhymesters begs no more

Of us who stand in awe of agéd word.

The parchment yellows given time

as quills are plucked from cooing birds.

In natures grove the visions grow

As grapes are trodden wine

In our embrace.

By faith we’re shown the course we roam

In waltz of words and serenades of grace.

On poet’s page the tears are smear’d

That leave a trace upon my face.

I count these tears of ink to track the years,

At length, to smile at my loving fate…..