How the weathervane spirals in the season’s mouth

In blusters of feathered eyes, the tokens of ornithology

While a parade of rooted trees dressed in cotton seed

March the greening river, heads skimming silver clouds

I.

A language not quite English writes your soul

In honest and profound descriptive text

I follow you atop a craggy knoll

Where fractured rocks with violets are dressed.

Squeeze hard, upon the charcoal seeded clouds

Let poetry drip in your open mouth

Succor the images that fall in crowds

Taste them, speak them limn them in your house.