Word-Weaver Poem by Granville Holt

And as you save the best till last, Millay,
First stroke the eight, so blood to flesh arise,
Though some sighs soothe and some soft lips soothsay,
Each rush brings hush to misty, glaze dove eyes
With tender lines, flame the longing beast, mute
Love’s breast by silken kiss of worded sword,
Then lay abandon upon heartstring’s lute,
Touch lyric rhymes of rhythmic fever cord,

Caress music thrums within rude being,
Sweet as bittersweet, melodious meet,
On songbird wings of Poetry, seeing
Through honeysuckle throes, pen replete,
While lovers seek refuge in poem form,
Embrace as one soul, Sonnet’s cruciform!