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.