every thudbeat
taxes this furtive shy pen
ensconced in human weather.
yes, this cocoon, it can tire,
its aorta of mortar-and-pestle,
grinding some aloof thought.
inspiration, so stingy,
pouches its little frissons,
lest windy wishes tear them away.
my final chapter throbs deep in some ventricle,
folded in a nutshell,
deep within the secrecy
of a monarch and yet
what final rapture it could be,
when wings lance out,
resplendent and airborne.
if only skies are sunny,
and the remnants of joy and calm
fade with grace.
=================
2/20/26 eds
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