She spoke
in a dialect
of shiny things—
buttons, bottlecaps,
bits of string—
and the crows
answered
like old uncles
with gossip and maps.

She knew
where lost rings
went,
how the dead trees
whispered,
why the sky
shivered twice
before
the snow.

The rest
of us
spoke of
weather and wages.
She spoke
in caw & hop
of  wonder.

it hard
too know
as i collect
the leaves

under a friendly tree
when i
shall  find
"the gems"

i sew
the leaves
into books.

with the tread
and
tapestry needle
that i carry
safe in the  pocket
it is only in moonlight
that paints worlds
and i find
gems
like a period
at the end
of  moon runed
poems.

(ink)
                          ↓
                      beak-full  
                         of  
                     black lines
                  /       |       \
             scratch   peck   caw—
               the page      the sky

             feathered        phrases
           gather in wind  
               of thought

          wingtip = quilltip
         margin = wire

            perch above prose—
           a stanza nest
      with twig metaphors

               (poem eggs)
               (still warm)

does everyone
know you
are a swine?
she sweetly asked.

no i oinked at her
keep my secret safe

my wings
confuse her
as
i flew
away
like a weightless
poem
with a simple ring
of humbleness
secured

on  the snout of my nose.

It hard to say
Giddy up
to a flying pig.

his snout
is never
within the pull of earth.

a thousand
feet in the sky
a pink snozzle in muddled clouds.

his oink
& corkscrew tail
the only thing;

except your
weightless imagination
keeping such a sight afloat up there.

I think that I shall never see
A sight as strange as a flying pig .

A winged pig that snout is sky-wised pushed
Against the earth’ fantastic slopping roundness

A winged pig who may fly all day,
And lifts whimsicality toward higher climes;

A pig that flutters in the icy air
A flap of wings and oinking there ;

Upon whose flight our imagination ascend
Our imitations in inward horizon up-sweeps logic .

Fall guys like me write poems,
But only metaphors like flying pigs

Can rise in ink stained skies and barnstorm
the very gates of eternity with winged couplets.

be careful
when you
invite new
metaphors
into your
fresh built
box of a poem.

a small
house is
perfect
or a poet
that has
few silver
words left  
in their
pocket.

lower case
               is  cheaper
                            than uppercase.

as you nail
penny-nails
with your
wobbling
flat head
hammer;
simpleness
into
all your
lines.

be careful
metaphors
can act
like
miniature
tigers.

some
of the  
metaphors
want to start
problems
to scratch  
at your
floorboard
& swing from
your curtains
with their
sharp
retractable claws
& climb
on  your
window panes
& leave
their nose-prints
impressed
on each
window
in each
of your
stanzas.

take the
broom
& chase
the  troublesome
ones out
past the door jams
of your poem.

keep the
few
metaphors
that  are
asleep
at the
hearth.


the similes
you scattered
as a homecoming
blessing
turn into
see-through
butterflies
& flap
their wings
in symmetry
of beats
up the
wainscot

the sparrow
of your
voice
awakes on
the swinging
perch of
your small simple
birdcage
          & begins
                     to chirp
& the
symbols
hiding in
the nooks
& crannies
come to your
table to steal
crumbs & slices
of green cheese
that you
have sliced
quietly
from
the moonrise
slowly
forming
like onion skin
in the
lightbulb
you keep
dutifully hidden
in your head.

symbols squeak
and the metaphors
dream
of goldfish
swimming
in the periods
the little bowls
you
place
in kindness
at the  ends
of your stanzas.