every thud
taxes this furtive old pen
ensconced in human weather.
yes, this cocoon, it can tire,
its aorta a mortar-and-pestle,
grinding some aloof thought.
inspiration, so stingy,
pouches its little frissons,
lest windy wishes tear them away.
that final chapter throbs deep in a ventricle,
folded up in a nutshell,
within the secrecy of monarch wings.
and yet
what final rapture, when it lances out,
resplendent and airborne--
only if skies are sunny,
and the facade of grace and calm
gratefully fades.
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