illustrated poetry

I found myself at the beginning, a zenith if you will,
and knew that the party had just started.
A prevernal Psalm, a hymn to the rose and the cross
had carried me to faraway dreams and afternoon places.
Shall I sing you a sonnet? Poetry in motion
born on midsummers wings, fly, my pretties, fly.
And we will love and we will hate
as we look beyond the fog of symbolic relationships
that cast shadows over time but carry quiet joy.
For there is a time to plant and a time to sow
and all the colors of the rainbow are ours
if only we see.