Scorched just looking at my own reflection

Something like paper, mummified

Picked up by the wind


I will better that one then

Nothing that reaches so high –

Should fall so low

But they do, as a rule


Without failures bite, no –

No glorious flight

all this for that

like a tit for a tat


What have I spun?  “A Yarn?”

A drowning dream gasping for air

A self-made fool

A jester without a care


But a better juggler

–        and a better struggler

–        a lonely devotee, with

His night table perched high in a tree


Rocking in the breeze, ‘waiting’

Finding a Symphony ion the rustling leaves

Taking short hand as moonbeam dictates

Shadow dances sermons and

morning sun renders his less puzzling dialogue


Many words are falling to the forest floor

From wide spreading branches

I collect the words into catches

For this bread we burn the midnight oil


Some forgotten seed spill out onto the litter

I sort them to make a meal

One for my teacher and one for the same

And one for the fool to re-bury and forget