The muse seeks the bard as a
Child is sought; the branches
Of a restive yearn are fodder
For love; what gains in a winter
Stream comes closer in heat and
Dies a little when frost dissolves.
Only when the seeker learns
To artfully don the garb of
The sought, when the playful
Stream of luck simmers sheet
Of pain, will the chokehold
Of sighs make way for union.
You have tilted the corners of your
Eye to mark heaven’s sleight of hand, and you leave empty handed.
The far-end is dead wood, the fire
Wood that will sting while it heals, and you caress the unleavened.
The one who stands out is a prism
That throws light on the many, and you plumb the two as one.