"A Small Hedge of Words"
Some say I lose the forest
chasing metaphors in the moss.
That I trim truth to fit a stanza
and dress up plain meaning
in alliteration's finest frock.
But if truth sits stiff in the open,
what joy is there in waving at it?
I'd rather coax it out sideways-
through riddles, refrains, and
the scent of freshly pruned syntax.
Call me elaborate, indulgent,
even evasive at times- but trust:
there's honesty in ornament
if you learn to read the flourish.
I may be that “some poet” you flagged,
waltzing past the point
with a thesaurus in tow.
But I'm not lost-just lingering,
where language grows wild
and truth hides willingly.
.
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 10:43 PM UTC
"A Small Hedge of Words"
Some say I lose the forest
chasing metaphors in the moss.
That I trim truth to fit a stanza
and dress up plain meaning
in alliteration's finest frock.
But if truth sits stiff in the open,
what joy is there in waving at it?
I'd rather coax it out sideways-
through riddles, refrains, and
the scent of freshly pruned syntax.
Call me elaborate, indulgent,
even evasive at times- but trust:
there's honesty in ornament
if you learn to read the flourish.
I may be that “some poet” you flagged,
waltzing past the point
with a thesaurus in tow.
But I'm not lost-just lingering,
where language grows wild
and truth hides willingly.
.
