What a spell, the poem

like a sorcerer's wand

waving in the air

and hanging there

— captive

under its reverie.

What a command, the poem

like conductor to orchestra:

with its power to move

our lips to the notes

of its vernacular.

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A drop loses herself in the puddle, The river's spirit is engulfed Ushered downhill from high To low altitudes all sentient sentiment...

I When told a twisted flute cannot carry A dulcet tune, that we are all hollow now, try as we might To ignore distant calling chimes....

Humus weighs heavy Swaddled in thick mire mantle Sleep now, nimble bud Among writhing roots forlorn Tall shall sprout Sun's blade reborn