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17:11, 23 Feb 2017
A dream & Rhyme.

Poetry is walking through woods,
her soles to soil, bare and pale.
And morning has come,
descending ambers, spirits sinking from a sun.
Poetry is sensing the chestnut earth,
dirt drawn by her tempered wine veil.
Leaves marooned and rich,
fluttering brittle sparks, burnt a telling trail.
Poets, claws and nose, are tracking the air,
autumns incarnated creatures of quite curiosity,
chirping a chorus of their primordial prayer.
Poetry strolls concealed by her crown,
of a hundred vibrant breathing, and burst tulips.
And morning has awoken,
sprinkling syllables like sage on the flesh of their lips.