Poet’s pens write to take flight
Like paintings of the open blue sky
And the moon lightly lit at midnight
Growing as trees from Japanese Bonsai
Visions of green briery vines,
Red roses and blue violets,
Written in measured and timed lines
that glide by, like descending pilots
Readers see the shadow on the wall
Writers see the vision from down the hall
Middle of the night. Woke up, can’t sleep. Nonsense.