March winds, a playful call,
Sigh, "Can you join the fray?
Dance among the roses tall,
Like runes melting away."
The canvas speaks of passing time,
A sweet soul returns to paint anew,
Sunset's fading, yet its hues chime,
In twilight's lingering view.
Your words, a breath upon the blade,
Forever etched, they never fade,
Painting nights and days in cascade,
Through centuries, your essence stays.
What of flowers, under night's press?
Darkness looms, yet do we guess,
Dare we call you back from light's recess?
What of flowers, their beauty's address?
In the artist's thought, your tale is spun,
By the writer's ink, your story's sung,
To perceive the hues, to open the gate,
Into poetry's hug, do we willingly wait?
©FP Jones
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