under a shattered sky
for something to crack loose, fly
into her waiting soul – some syllable
of song, some righted wrong, some
dragon tail of hum
-bled phrase that might unlock
the clouds for fools, unspools
their cotton why and wrangles them
into some semblance of spun
sugar silence. She’s found a
wrinkle in time, a slow-mimed
story to lull
-aby her to sleep.
the significance of her
self a secret, a whisper. A shhhhh
-bled tune no one knows.
A prose for fairies. A tickle of
teehee and tea. A tree of tangled
limbs and trebled clef. A full breath.
Prompted by Poetic Asides.