At times, particularly in the witching hours,
there is a word fly,
fat, green, blue, black
with transparent wings as finely veined
as cracks in old painted porcelain plates,
who has hunkered down in my brain folds.
She makes a nest, deposits her clutch of eggs
and waits for their bubbles to burst,
to fly out of my mouth.
The young words rush to seek the air,
curious, scattered,
then swarm together, a shape-shifting cloud
that settles, at last, on a page to make a poem.