A Poetic Thing

Peacock feather moon sets on her

Solitary, red rose – a delightful muse -

She sits one the crescent’s edge,

Swirling silk tucked under her legs

Flowing in the fading sunlight -

She waits, she sees into the minds of those that

Are worthy to be led:

To painting.

Captured in a clock with fantastic whirring gears

She sways to the whims of the pendulum -

Back and forth, agilely twisting laurels

Into her braids; her eyes are full

Of the light that seeps in through

The door -

She must know everything -

Every hum, clang, whisper, turn

On such a beautiful, poetic thing

She soaks it in and the words

Rush through her fingertips -

To know – delectable syllables

Back and forth until non rise

To her lips -

She’ll slink down

Leap from the case

Wind the clock and find

Another poet thing:

To Poetry.