we scribble tiny syllables
and tuck them between
these bright petaled teeth,
unsheath our quill-swords
and pen the truth in praise
and song.
they long to be spangled
in our word-skins, I think,
saturated
satiated
in wee-stemmed
………………..ink.
In April, we poem. Some days, none. Some days, legion.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 