Born of Flight

I can walk among words,

Scatter them like birds,

to compose two thirds

of a poem, when they settle

on nearby wires,

in an order inspiring

wonder.

 

What do they think, when

I scatter them asunder.

Bring them disarray,

Shape them to a raucous cloud

of noir ballet,

to chatter at me, their tart sorbet,

a squawking I shape to reggae,

depicting long, dark, passageways,

emerging into a sudden Monet

a pastel perfect, vibrant bouquet

born of the shrieks

from a Stellar Jay.

 

This is the magic passageway

out from the world of yesterday,

relaxing

into today's sobriquet.