hachete's Journal: The Lightning's Forge

The cypress elm spreads it's dark green bowers
across the lawn. Beneath it's dark warm heart
pheasants court, compete, complete pursuit. Oh my!
The black squirrel hangs by it's toes,
thumbs it's nose. Fissle material such are dreams
handled carefully by the quiet fantasists
shovelled into the furnace, ignited, fired,
often more Frankenfurter than Frankenstein
but once in a while, the eager blackbird
attacks the mirror, the bees come down the chimney,
we fizz and spark in a quiet obsessive way:
a little less mole-hill than wasps' nest,
more swallow dart and dragonfly pause
on the mock orange's tip - unsteady it seems -
than continuing to dilute the hours slowly;
yet, my lays are trammelled in the rare snow.
I wait here in the shadow of the brioche shrub
honing words for the darting breeze of a summer's day.