His large and clumsy fingers fumbled
with the clasp of a leather strap.

He fed it around my neck, then
twisted the red pendant that hung above my breast.

“It’s a bird caller.” He said,
as a pitchy squawk startled my ears.

He dropped it into my smaller hands
And I pinched the vessel

Finger and thumb, finger and thumb,  
I too released the pent up call –

Each trill received an echo that answered from the trees,
I willed a conversation that started with the spring.

MUCH madness is divinest sense,
for the naturally inclined
toward the colorful; hence –
a world where matter lies
in erroneous order:
the nagging flies are,
stately kings – kings who fall
to reverence when,
the cavalcade of ignorant childs
whisper truths like
‘this one is mine’, in tones of such
finality they are proclaimed as law;
their confidence boundless and
raw with unabashed passion – while,
the worms remain unturned in beds,
mouthing silently unspoken poems.