Poem: Red With Lavender

clipart for Red with Lavender

 

                            There is a music to this; there

                            is a slight fluttering, a trilling

                            if you will, a measured

                            distance between these peaks;

 

                            a bird in its nest would

                            know this, would feel the wind,

                            would name the currents as

                            some do stars, would

 

                            shuffle the alphabet, if birds

                            have that, would call this

                            more; music is like that

                            to birds, to those able to carry

 

                            these single syllables,

                            draw them out, build on a simple

                            chirp and produce song where

                            there was none, where notes

 

                            were the last small somethings

                            to be papered in. When

                            the queen wears diamonds, we

                            breathe ambrosia.

 

                                                         © Diane Beaty

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