A Poet Speaks

Words like the butterfly, fragile and soft
with skins of velvet, the color of dawn

or like the sky, beguilingly bright,
making earth reach out in joyful anticipation.

They are the fragrance of one gardenia
or an orchard heavy with fruit

without spot, without blemish,
born wholly perfect and totally formed.

The senses are flavors of honey and spice,
warm and sweet but exciting to the lips

as images ride upon the lily pads
and warmth gently stirring the sands,

a mirage to shimmer as the sunlight fades
an essence of softness and grace,

a nest of beauty upon the moon
catching a tangle of stars.