Birth of a Poem

 

Sometimes a butterfly

fluttering across the sky.

Incessant buzzing in B flat

persistent hum, like a gnat.

Lines of words marching

promises in the dark, arching

over a tangled patch of briar-

sacrifice for the funeral pyre.

Abandoned ruin of simple phrases

starving sages locked in cages,

choking on simplified words

slow procession- a funeral dirge.

At breakfast we eat spider’s eggs,

by noon they’ve grown their legs.

Like pigs their truffles to forage

sharing, daring to find the courage.

Here is my soul, my child.

Enjoy it, please, a little while.