Grindstone of words cut into pieces of Bissel and spittle.
 The slivers of sapphire, fall in love with themselves --
 refusing to find a finger to place a ring,
 because the circle of poems speaks in bright sunlight
  
 Walk around and pretend to be a peacock preening,
 astonished by resplendent color,
 and fearless to take frenzied flight
 off each stanza.
  
 If I knew the satisfaction of internal acceptance 
 was the purchase of my poems, 
 I would have been spared the grief of trial and error
 (in my younger years)
 to find a place in the outside world to matter.
  
 Becoming a pictograph on the side of a mountain,
 the sheaves of my poems on the stone
 are a reminder of love emanating from the sender
 To you my darlings, the recipients of years 
 of burnished work and fevered care.