Around the house the flakes fly faster,
And all the berries now are gone'
Birds At Winter, Thomas Harding
is what we are.
Bewitched by the light,
pretty little cento,
eclipse enchanted with rainbows.
Our childhood memories linger
like pastoral triolets rolling about meadows.
Luck has nothing to do with interpreting
the veils with which we choose to cover our faces.
Enlightenment happens after we fall.
Madness comes in the form of eyes
appended to blood dripping rocks
when our demons fail to cross the river.
Never is where we usually drink tea
and endlessly suck on lemons.
Smiles are inevitable
when we spar with strangers.