A Poet Speaks


A poet speaks, A world is born,
Filled with light or dark or both,
With birds drinking liquid sun
From petals of a fireweed
And crickets bowing viol wings
In patient monotony.  Or
Shadows from the moon falling
Through a naked winter Oak
Upon a sleeping carpet of
Last year's extravagance
Partly covered by melting snow.


The worlds, never the same, ciphers
Deep within the inner brain,
Caged phantoms of the shadowland
Which hovers just beyond the tongue
And when grasped in common hands
Dissolve, resembling more a muddy
Mess left by careless feet.


Bryan Ness