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.