With words I weave a nest atop
Your esplumoir, ever rickety and strange
as each poem inside the weft
eggs a bestiary, of eagle or whale,
moth and vole, a verbal panoply
root breasted and leaf blessed.
It’s precarious endeavor, smooth
in daily sense yet teetering with
the bumps and shakes of waking song,
flexing flukes You wing and throng.
Every morning I labor with lines
annealing the rose window’s panes
stained panoplies which seize the sun
and craze mind’s eye to gospel,
its convincing gallop and gold sprawl.
An ocean’s heave and crash
loud enough clause with dash—
immense with grander magnitudes
than any flung thought creels but will
given all the space Your verses thrill.
Inside every poem the esplumoir
judges this or that word’s feathered height
beyond mere craft of magic sleight.
Like the daily round of griefs and squalls
which spark in coupling are not…
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