I come upon the winding road in the thicket
with a candle on my forehead, forging ahead
in the delightful remove.
Where the curves of the world
have cobblestones and ivy.
Briarpatch eyes and lazy ravens
painting the sky
too Blue.

I keep my leaving in my stationery hive of rain
and long mourning. Happiness chips away at the frost
of a dormant grove of beleaguered charms…
where hornets sleep on spikes of spun sugar
and canaries  are more yellow
than a laughing
Truth.