The chorus: morning glory, holy, blue;
the chirping of the blue birds wholly true
is unlike ambiguity; the birds
are certain in their beauty void of words.

There's something in the air 'mid summer night;
the crickets call divine to poet's pen.
The rhapsode speaks to truth beyond his sight,
adorned by form, possessed beyond his ken.

The dialogues of man and poem surge
as meaning's multiplicity is found
in one unspoken statement to resound
through poems, all, encompassed by the urge.

The butterfly that surging clear in sight,
like poetry, is whimsical in flight.