When I’m
Thickly entwined
In Ficly
I see thorns on the rose bush wind
To the sky
And I
Know that the light will feel warm
After the storm has torn away my forlorn dismay

I find
Roots in the mud
Of my mind
And I shoot out buds on the vine.

Aroma meets the air
And my well watered petals
Unfurl and settle their contours right here.

I go I always know
The white pearl’s alabaster glow
Even when the Atlantic’s undertow is near
Somehow I burrow and stow it in the sound that you hear.
I must go wherever the wind
Refreshes expressions
Never to be pinned
In submission
Lest I lessen
The blessings within.
I’m confessing
To the slaughterer infesting our water:
You will never win

My aim
Is to have ridden your claim
Out of town—
Where the violin of a cricket
Is hidden never to be found.

I like the softened, simple song of a singer
Who often feels frowns peel—
Revealing dimples above the smiles of the listener’s that stay awhile—
Like how spring time smells
Dispel a well worn winter from stuffy lapels.

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